5 


;V 


The    /Vf/rr   (if   the   Jun^li 


JUNGLE   PEACE 


5^<^WlLLIAM  ^EEBE, 


Curator  of  Birds,  New  York  Zoological  Park,  and 
Director  of  Tropical  Research  Station 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1918 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 

BY 
HENRY  UOLT  AND  COMPANY 


TNI    OUINN    *    B  ,1)1  K     CO.    PMIM 


352^3 

Bancroft  Libraiy 


TO 
COLONEL  AND  MRS.   THEODORE   ROOSEVELT 

I  OFFER  THIS  VOLUME    WITH  DEEPEST  FRIENDSHIP 


NOTE 

With  three  exceptions  these  chapters  have  appeared  in  the  pages 
of  Tfo  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  I  publish  them  through  the  kindness  of 
the  Editor,  Ellery  Sedgwick.  "Hoatziusat  Home"  is  adapted  from 
ji  title  in  my  Tropical  Wild  Life,  Volume  I,  published  by  the  New 
York  Zoological  Society,  which  deals  with  the  more  technical  results 
of  study  at  the  Research  Station.  The  illustrations  are  from  my 
own  photographs,  except  the  frontispiece  and  those  facing  pages 
162,  186,  and  268,  which  were  taken  by  Paul  G.  Howes.  All  the 
chapters  dealing  with  the  jungle  relate  to  Bartica  District,  British 
Guiana,  except  X,  which  refers  to  Pard  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Amazon. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    Jungle  Peace 3 

II    Sea-wrack 5 

III  Islands 33 

IV  The  Pomeroon  Trail 66 

V    A  Hunt  for  Hoatzins 92 

VI    Hoatzins  at  Home 123 

VII    A  Wilderness  Laboratory       ....  140 

VIII    The  Convict  Trail 177 

IX    With  Army   Ants   "  Somewhere  "   in   the 

Jungle 211 

X    A  Yard  of  Jungle 239 

XI    Jungle  Night 263 

Index  .  295 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Peace  of  the  Jungle     ....     Frontispiece 

Where  the  Sargasso  Floats       ......  16 

Mont  Pelee :.       .       .  28 

Sunset  in  the  West  Indies 46 

A  Guiana  Shore 70 

A  Tropical  Koadside 86 

A  Hoatzin  Swamp 118 

Nestling    Hoatzin    Climbing    with    Thumb    and 

Forefinger 134 

The  Laboratory  in  the  Jungle 146 

A  Corner  of  Kalacoon  Laboratory    ....  162 

The  Edge  of  the  Jungle 186 

Jungle  near  the  Convict  Trail 202 

Pit  Number  Five 222 

Canello  do  Matto— the  Tree  of  the  Birds      .       .  242 

The  Jungle 268 

A  Watcher  in  the  Jungle 280 


JUNGLE  PEACE 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

AFTER  creeping  through  slime-filled  holes  be- 
neath the  shrieking  of  swift  metal,  after  splashing 
one's  plane  through  companionable  clouds  three 
miles  above  the  little  jagged,  hero-filled  ditches, 
and  dodging  other  sudden-born  clouds  of  nau- 
seous fumes  and  blasting  heart  of  steel;  after 
these,  one  craves  thoughts  of  comfortable  hens, 
sweet  apple  orchards,  or  ineffable  themes  of 
opera.  And  when  nerves  have  cried  for  a  time 
'  enough '  and  an  unsteady  hand  threatens  to 
turn  a  joy  stick  into  a  sign  post  to  Charon,  the 
mind  seeks  amelioration — some  symbol  of  worthy 
content  and  peace — and  for  my  part,  I  turn 
with  all  desire  to  the  jungles  of  the  tropics. 

If  one  looks  the  jungle  straight  in  the  face 
and  transcribes  what  is  seen,  there  is  evolved 
technical  science,  and  until  this  can  be  done  with 
accuracy  and  discretion,  one  can  never  feel 
worthy  now  and  then,  of  stealing  quietly  up  a 


4  JUNGLE  PEACE 

side  aisle  of  the  great  green  wonderland,  and, 
as  I  have  done  in  these  pages,  looking  obliquely 
at  all  things,  observing  them  as  actors  and  com- 
panions rather  than  as  species  and  varieties; 
softening  facts  with  quiet  meditation,  leavening 
science  with  thoughts  of  the  sheer  joy  of  exist- 
ence. It  should  be  possible  occasionally  to 
achieve  this  and  yet  to  return  to  science  en- 
riched and  with  enthusiasm,  and  again  to  play 
some  little  part  in  the  great  physical  struggle — 
that  wonderful  strife  which  must  give  to  future 
peace  and  contentment  new  appreciation,  a 
worthier  enjoyment. 

It  is  possible  to  enter  a  jungle  and  become 
acutely  aware  of  poison  fang  and  rending  claw 
—much  as  a  pacifist  considers  the  high  adven- 
ture of  righteous  war.  But  it  is  infinitely  more 
wonderful  and  altogether  satisfying  to  slip 
quietly  and  receptively  into  the  life  of  the 
jungle,  to  accept  all  things  as  worthy  and 
reasonable;  to  sense  the  beauty,  the  joy,  the 
majestic  serenity  of  this  age-old  fraternity  of 
nature,  into  whose  sanctuary  man's  entrance  is 
unnoticed,  his  absence  unregretted.  The  peace 
of  the  jungle  is  beyond  all  telling. 


II 

SEA-WRACK 

SUSPENDED  in  the  naked  air  eight  thousand 
feet  above  New  York,  I  look  down  and  see  the 
city  and  its  inhabitants  merged  into  one.  From 
this  height  the  metropolis  is  less  interesting  and 
hardly  more  noticeable  than  many  tropical  ants' 
nests  which  have  come  under  my  observation. 
Circling  slcwly  earthward,  I  have  watched  the 
city  split  apart  into  its  canyon  streets,  and  have 
finally  distinguished  the  caterpillars  which  I 
knew  were  trains,  and  the  black  beetles  which 
must  be  automobiles.  Last,  and  apparently 
least,  were  resolved  a  multitude  of  tiny  specks, 
weird  beings  all  hats  and  legs,  which  were  un- 
doubtedly the  makers  and  owners  of  these  beetles 
and  worms  and  canyons. 

In  many  similar  bird's-eye-views  of  the  city 
one  phase  of  activity  always  amuses  and  thrills. 
Circling  as  low  as  I  dare,  bumped  and  jolted 
by  the  surging  uprush  of  invisible  spouts  of 

5 


6  JUNGLE  PEACE 

warm  air,  I  head,  like  a  frigate-bird,  straight 
into  the  teeth  of  the  wind  and  hang  for  a  time 
parallel  with  the  streaming  lines  of  gray  and 
white  smoke.  Near  the  margin  of  the  city 
where  the  glittering  water  reaches  long  fingers 
in  between  the  wharves,  a  crowd  of  people 
push,  antwise,  down  to  the  brink.  Many  bur- 
dened individuals  pass  and  repass  over  slender 
bridges  or  gang-planks,  for  all  the  world  like 
leaf -cutting  ants  transporting  their  booty  over 
twigs  and  grass  stems.  Then  comes  a  frantic 
waving  of  antennae,  (or  are  they  handker- 
chiefs), and  finally  part  of  the  wharf  detaches 
itself  and  is  slowly  separated  from  the  city. 
Now  I  can  mount  higher  to  a  less  dangerous 
altitude  and  watch  the  ship  become  a  drifting 
leaf,  then  a  floating  mote,  to  vanish  at  last 
over  a  curve  of  the  world.  I  cease  chuckling 
into  the  roar  of  my  motor;  my  amusement  be- 
comes all  thrill.  The  gods  shift  and  change: 
Yoharneth-Lahai  leaves  me,  and  in  his  place 
comes  Slid,  with  the  hand  of  Roon  beside  me 
on  the  wheel.  I  hasten  hangarwards  with  the 
gulls  which  are  beating  towards  their  roosting 
sands  of  far  Long  Island  beaches. 

On  some  future  day  I  in  my  turn,  scurry  up 


SEA-WRACK  7 

a  gang-plank  laden  with  my  own  particular 
bundles,  following  days  of  haste  and  nights  of 
planning.  I  go  out  on  the  upper  deck  of  the 
vessel,  look  upward  at  a  gull  and  think  of  the 
amusing  side  of  all  the  fuss  and  preparation, 
the  farewells,  the  departure,  which  sufficient 
perspective  gives.  And  then  I  look  ahead,  out 
toward  the  blue-black  ocean,  and  up  again  to 
the  passing  gulls,  and  the  old,  yet  ever  new 
thrill  of  travel,  of  exploration,  possesses  me. 
Even  if  now  the  thrill  is  shared  by  none  other, 
if  I  must  stand  alone  at  the  rail  watching  the 
bow  dip  to  the  first  swell  outside  the  harbor, 
I  am  yet  glad  to  be  one  of  the  ants  which  has 
escaped  from  the  turmoil  of  the  great  nest,  to 
drift  for  a  while  on  this  tossing  leaf. 

At  the  earnest  of  winter — whether  biting  frost 
or  flurry  of  snowflakes — a  woodchuck  mounts 
his  little  moraine  of  trampled  earth,  looks  about 
upon  the  saddening  world,  disapproves,  and  de- 
scends to  his  long  winter's  sleep.  An  exact 
parallel  may  be  observed  in  the  average  pas- 
senger. As  the  close  perspective  of  home,  of 
streets,  of  terrestrial  society  slips  away,  and  his 
timid  eyes  gaze  upon  the  unwonted  sight  of  a 
horizon — a  level  horizon  unobstructed  by  any 


8  JUNGLE  PEACE 

obstacles  of  man's  devising,  mental  and  physical 
activity  desert  him:  he  hibernates.  He  swathes 
himself,  larva-like — in  many  wrappings,  and  en- 
cases himself  in  the  angular  cocoons  furnished 
for  the  purpose  at  one  dollar  each  by  the  deck 
steward;  or  he  haunts  the  smoking  room,  and 
under  the  stimulus  of  unaccustomed  beverages 
enters  into  arguments  at  levels  of  intelligence 
and  logic  which  would  hardly  tax  the  powers 
of  Pithecanthropus  or  a  Bushman. 

From  the  moment  of  sailing  I  am  always  im- 
pressed with  the  amusing  terrestrial  instincts  of 
most  human  beings.  They  leave  their  fellows 
and  the  very  wharf  itself  with  regret,  and  no 
sooner  are  they  surrounded  by  old  ocean  than 
their  desires  fly  ahead  to  the  day  of  freedom 
from  this  transitory  aquatic  prison.  En  route, 
every  thought,  every  worry,  every  hope  is  cen- 
tripetal. The  littlenesses  of  ship  life  are  magni- 
fied to  subjects  of  vital  importance,  and  so  per- 
ennial and  enthusiastic  are  these  discussions  that 
it  seems  as  if  the  neighbor's  accent,  the  daily 
dessert,  the  sempiternal  post-mortem  of  the 
bridge  game,  the  home  life  of  the  stewardess, 
must  contain  elements  of  greatness  and  good- 
ness. With  a  few  phonograph  records  it  would 


SEA-WRACK  9 

not  be  a  difficult  matter  to  dictate  in  advance  a 
satisfactory  part  in  the  average  conversation  at 
the  Captain's  table.  The  subjects,  almost  with- 
out exception,  are  capable  of  prediction,  the 
remarks  and  points  of  view  may  be  anticipated. 

Occasionally  a  passenger  detaches  his  mind 
from  the  ship  and  its  doings  long  enough  to  take 
note  of  something  happening  beyond  the  rail- 
some  cosmic  phenomenon  which  he  indicates 
with  unerring  finger  as  a  beautiful  sunset,  fre- 
quently reassuring  himself  of  our  recognition  by 
a  careful  enumeration  of  his  conception  of  the 
colors.  Or  a  school  of  dolphins  undulates 
through  two  mediums,  and  is  announced,  in  a 
commendably  Adam-like,  but  quite  inaccurate 
spirit,  as  porpoises  or  young  whales.  Mercury, 
setting  laggardly  in  the  west,  is  gilded  anew 
by  our  informant  as  a  lightship,  or  some  phare 
off  Cape  Imagination.  We  shall  draw  a  veil 
or  go  below,  when  an  "  average  citizen  "  begins 
to  expound  the  stars  and  constellations. 

All  this  is  only  amusing,  and  with  the  limited 
interest  in  the  ship  and  the  trip  which  the  usual 
passenger  permits  himself,  he  still  derives  an 
amazing  amount  of  pleasure  from  it  all.  It  is  a 
wonderful  child-like  joy,  whether  of  convinc- 


10  JUNGLE  PEACE 

ingly  misnaming  stars,  enthusiastically  playing 
an  atrocious  game  of  shuffle-board,  or  estimating 
the  ship's  log  with  methods  of  cunning  mathe- 
matical accuracy,  but  hopeless  financial  results. 
All  these  things  I  have  done  and  shall  doubt- 
less continue  to  do  on  future  voyages,  but  there 
is  an  additional  joy  of  striving  to  break  with 
precedent,  to  concentrate  on  the  alluring  possi- 
bilities of  new  experiences,  new  discoveries,  on 
board  ship. 

If  the  vessel  is  an  oasis  in  a  desert,  or  in 
a  "  waste  of  waters  "  as  is  usually  announced  at 
table  about  the  second  or  third  day  out,  then  I 
am  a  true  Arab,  or,  to  follow  more  closely  the 
dinner  simile,  a  Jonah  of  sorts,  for  my  interest  is 
so  much  more  with  the  said  waste,  or  the  things 
in  it  and  above  it,  than  with  my  swathed,  hiber- 
nating fellow  mortals. 

Precedent  on  board  ship  is  not  easily  to  be 
broken,  and  much  depends  on  the  personality 
of  the  Captain.  If  he  has  dipped  into  little- 
known  places  all  over  the  world  with  which  you 
are  familiar,  or  if  you  show  appreciation  of  a 
Captain's  point  of  view,  the  battle  is  won.  A 
few  remarks  about  the  difficulty  of  navigation 
of  Nippon's  Inland  Sea,  a  rebuke  of  some 


SEA-WRACK  11 

thoughtless  idiot  at  table  who  hopes  for  a  storm; 
such  things  soon  draw  forth  casual  inquiries 
on  his  side,  and  when  a  Captain  begins  to  ask 
questions,  the  freedom  of  the  chart-room  is 
yours,  and  your  unheard-of  requests  which  only 
a  naturalist  could  invent  or  desire,  will  not  fail 
of  fulfilment. 

I  am  off  on  a  voyage  of  two  weeks  to  British 
Guiana  and  I  begin  to  ponder  the  solution  of 
my  first  problem.  The  vessel  plows  along  at  a 
ten-knot  rate,  through  waters  teeming  with  in- 
teresting life  and  stopping  at  islands  where 
every  moment  ashore  is  of  thrilling  scientific 
possibility.  By  what  means  can  I  achieve  the 
impossible  and  study  the  life  of  this  great  ocean 
as  we  slip  rapidly  through  it — an  ocean  so  all- 
encompassing,  yet  to  a  passenger,  so  inaccessible. 

Day  after  day  I  scan  the  surface  for  mo- 
mentary glimpses  of  cetaceans,  and  the  air  for 
passing  sea  birds.  Even  the  rigging,  at  cer- 
tain seasons,  is  worth  watching  as  a  resting 
place  for  migrating  birds.  The  extreme  bow  is 
one  of  the  best  points  of  vantage,  but  the  spot 
of  all  spots  for  an  observer  is  the  appropriately 
named  crow's  nest,  high  up  on  the  foremast. 
You  have  indeed  won  the  Captain  over  to  your 


12  JUNGLE  PEACE 

bizarre  activities  when  he  accords  permission  to 
climb  the  swaying  ratlines  and  heave  yourself 
into  that  wonderful  place.  It  is  tame  enough 
when  compared  with  piloting  a  plane  among  the 
clouds,  but  it  presents  an  enormous  expanse  of 
ocean  compared  with  the  humble  deck  view. 
Here  you  can  follow  the  small  whales  or  black- 
fish  down  and  down  long  after  they  have 
sounded ;  with  your  binoculars  you  can  see  every 
detail  of  the  great  floating  turtles.  And  when 
the  sun  sinks  in  glory  which  is  terrible  in  its 
grandeur,  you  may  let  it  fill  your  senses  with 
wordless  ecstasy,  without  fear  of  interpretive 
interruption.  Save  for  the  other  matchstick 
mast  and  the  spider-web  ratlines,  the  horizon 
is  unbroken. 

Many  years  ago  I  spent  a  night  in  the  torch 
of  the  Statue  of  Liberty  and  each  time  I  dozed, 
the  twenty  odd  inch  arch  through  which  the 
lofty  structure  swayed,  awoke  me  again  and 
again,  being  changed,  behind  one's  closed  lids, 
into  a  single  motion,  apparently  that  of  a 
gradually  accelerated  fall  to  earth.  In  the 
crow's  nest,  when  the  ship  is  rolling,  I  can 
often  conjure  up  the  same  feeling  when  my  eyes 
are  shut,  but  now  I  react  to  a  new  stimulus 


SEA-WRACK  13 

and  instinctively  reach  for  a  steering  rod,  as 
the  sensation  is  that  of  a  wing  slip,  consequent 
upon  too  slow  progress  of  an  aeroplane. 

Among  the  luggage  which  I  take  on  board 
is  invariably  a  large,  eight-pronged,  iron  grap- 
ple, with  a  long  coil  of  rope.  These  the  stew- 
ards eye  askance  when  they  place  them  in  my 
cabin,  and  hold  whispered  consultations  as  to 
their  possible  use.  It  is  by  no  accident  or 
chance  that  before  the  third  day  I  have  won 
the  attention  and  a  certain  amount  of  interest 
of  the  Captain  and  have  obtained  permission  to 
put  his  vessel  to  a  novel  use.  About  the  fourth 
day,  from  the  upper  deck  or  the  ship's  bow,  I 
begin  to  see  floating  patches  of  seaweed — gulf- 
weed  or  sargasso  as  it  is  called.  For  the  most 
part  this  appears  as  single  stems  or  in  small 
rounded  heads,  awash  with  the  surface.  But 
as  we  proceed  southward  larger  masses  appear, 
and  then,  with  my  assistant,  I  get  my  crude 
apparatus  ready.  We  fasten  one  end  of  the 
coil  of  rope  to  the  rail  of  the  lowest  open  deck 
forward,  and  then  I  mount  the  rail,  securing 
a  good  grip  with  legs  and  feet.  As  a  cowboy 
on  a  fractious  horse  gathers  the  loops  of  his 
lariat  for  the  throw,  so  I  estimate  my  distance 


14  JUNGLE  PEACE 

and  balance  myself  for  the  propitious  moment. 
Now  if  not  before,  the  audience  gathers.  It  is 
flattering  to  see  how  quickly  my  performance 
will  empty  the  smoking  room,  put  an  end  to 
bridge  games  and  fill  the  deck  chairs  with 
deserted,  outspread  yellow-backs.  As  danger- 
ous rival  attractions,  I  admit  only  boat-drill  and 
the  dinner  gong! 

My  whole  object  is  of  course  to  secure  as 
much  as  possible  of  the  sargasso  weed  together 
with  its  strange  inhabitants,  and  to  this  end  I 
have  tramped  the  decks  of  steamers  with  the 
patience  of  the  pedestrian  of  Chillon.  I  have 
learned  the  exact  portions  of  the  vessels  where  the 
strain  is  the  least,  and  where  the  water,  outflung 
from  the  bow  is  redrawn  most  closely  to  the 
vessel's  side.  I  have  had  overheavy  grapples 
dragged  from  my  hand  and  barely  escaped  fol- 
lowing the  lost  instrument.  I  have  seen  too- 
light  irons  skip  along  the  surface,  touching  only 
the  high  spots  of  the  waves.  As  one  drops  one's 
aerial  bomb  well  in  advance  of  the  object 
aimed  at,  so  I  have  had  to  learn  to  adjust 
the  advance  of  my  cast  to  the  speed  of  the 
ship. 

I  make  throw  after  throw  in  vain,  and  my 


SEA-WRACK  15 

audience  is  beginning  to  jeer  and  to  threaten  to 
return  to  the  unfinished  no  trumps,  or  the  final 
chapter  of  '*  The  Lure  of  Love."  Near  the 
water  level  as  I  am,  I  can  yet  see  ahead  a  big 
'  slick '  of  golden  brown,  and  I  wait.  But  the 
bow  dips  farther  and  farther  away  and  I  almost 
give  up  hope.  Then  I  look  up  appealingly  to 
the  bridge  and  catch  a  twinkle  in  the  Captain's 
eye.  Even  as  I  look  he  motions  to  the  wheel- 
man and  the  second  succeeding  dip  of  the  bow 
slews  it  nearer  the  aquatic  golden  field.  Still 
more  it  swings  to  starboard  and  at  last  crashes 
down  into  the  very  heart  of  the  dense  mass  of 
weed.  The  frothing  water  alongside  is  thick 
with  the  tangle  of  floating  vegetation,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  miss.  I  throw  and  lean  far  over, 
dragging  the  grapple  until  its  arms  are  packed 
full.  Then  with  all  my  strength  I  draw  up, 
hand  over  hand,  leaning  far  out  so  it  will  not 
bang  against  the  side,  and  dump  the  dripping 
mass  on  the  deck.  My  helper  instantly  frees  the 
prongs  and  I  make  a  second  cast  and  get 
another  rich  haul  before  the  last  of  the 
field  of  weed  drifts  astern  and  tarnishes 
the  emerald  foam  of  the  propeller  churned 
wake. 


16  JUNGLE  PEACE 

For  a  few  minutes  there  is  wild  excitement. 
My  audience  dances  and  shouts  with  enthusiasm 
from  the  upper  rails,  members  of  the  crew 
appear  arid  help  me  pursue  agile  crabs  and  flop- 
ping fish  about  the  deck.  Even  the  surly  old 
mate  roars  down  news  of  another  batch  of  weed 
ahead,  and  I  curb  my  curiosity  and  again  mount 
my  precarious  roost. 

In  the  course  of  several  days  I  acquire  a 
wonderful  sunburn,  considerable  accuracy  in 
flinging  my  octodont,  and  finally  a  series  of 
tumblers  of  very  interesting  specimens,  which 
furnish  me  with  many  new  facts,  and  my  fellow 
passengers  with  the  means  to  kill  much  of  that 
embarrassing  concomitant  of  ocean  voyages- 
time. 

An  amazing  amount  of  fiction  and  nonsense 
has  been  written  about  the  sargasso  weed,  but 
the  truth  is  actually  more  unbelievable.  Though 
we  see  it  in  such  immense  patches,  and  although 
for  days  the  ocean  may  be  flecked  with  the 
scattered  heads  of  the  weed,  yet  it  is  no  more 
at  home  in  mid-ocean  than  the  falling  leaves  in 
autumn  may  claim  as  their  place  of  abode, 
the  breeze  which  whirls  them  about,  or  the  moss 
upon  which  at  last  they  come  to  rest.  Along 


Where  the  Sargasso  Floats 


SEA-WRACK  17 

the  coast  of  Central  America  the  sargasso  weed 
grows,  clinging,  as  is  the  way  with  seaweeds,  to 
coral  and  rock  and  shell,  and  flowering  and 
fruiting  after  its  lowly  fashion.  The  berry-like 
bladders  with  which  the  stems  are  strung,  are 
filled  with  gas  and  enable  the  plants  to  maintain 
their  position  regardless  of  the  state  of  the  tide. 
Vast  quantities  are  torn  away  by  the  waves  and 
drift  out  to  sea  and  these  stray  masses  are  what 
we  see  on  every  trip  south,  and  which,  caught  in 
the  great  mid-ocean  eddy,  form  the  so-called 
Sargasso  Sea.  Just  as  the  unfailing  fall  of 
dead  leaves  has  brought  about  a  forest  loving 
clique  of  brown  and  russet  colored  small  folk- 
frogs,  crickets,  lizards,  birds  and  mammals  which 
spend  much  of  their  life  hiding  beneath  or  liv- 
ing upon  the  brown  dead  leaves,  so  this  never- 
ending  drift  of  weed  has  evolved  about  it  a  little 
world  of  life,  a  microcosmos  of  great  intimacy, 
striving  by  imitation  of  frond  and  berry  and 
color  to  avoid  some  of  the  host  of  enemies  for- 
ever on  the  lookout. 

It  is  possible  to  place  a  bit  of  weed  in  a 
tumbler  of  salt  water  and  have  a  dozen  people 
examine  it  without  seeing  anything  but  a  yellow- 
ish brown  frond  with  many  long,  narrow  leaves 


18  JUNGLE  PEACE 

and  a  number  of  berry-like  structures,  Here 
and  there  are  patches  of  thin  ivory-white  shells 
—tiny  whorls  glued  closely  to  the  surface  of  the 
leaves.  Yet  on  this  same  small  piece  of  weed 
there  may  be  several  good-sized  crabs,  slug- 
like  creatures,  shrimps  and  a  fish  two  or  three 
inches  in  length.  Until  they  move,  the  eye  is 
powerless  to  detach  them.  No  two  are  alike; 
the  little  frog-fish  is  mottled  and  striped,  with 
many  small  flabby  filaments,  and  apparently 
ragged  fins,  with  curious  hand-like  fore  limbs 
which  clutch  the  fronds  closely.  The  pipe-fish 
and  sea-horses  are  draped  and  ragged,  and 
splashed  with  yellow  and  brown,  the  slugs  are 
simply  flaccid  stems  or  leaves,  and  the  crabs  are 
beyond  belief,  living  bits  of  weed.  Some  are 
clear  yellow,  others  are  mottled,  others  again 
have  white  enameled  spots  like  the  small  masses 
of  tiny  shells.  The  little  shrimps  are  mere 
ghosts  of  life,  transparent,  yielding  to  every 
movement  of  the  water — altogether  marvelous. 
Then  there  are  other  beings,  blue  like  the  sea, 
white  like  the  foam,  or  translucent  bits  of  dis- 
embodied organs.  This  is  all  absorbingly  won- 
derful, but  the  unreality  of  this  little  world's 
existence,  the  remembrance  of  its  instability  is 


SEA-WRACK  19 

always  present,  and  the  tragedy  of  the  immedi- 
ate future  looms  large. 

The  weed  along  the  coast  is  honest  growth, 
with  promise  of  permanence.  The  great  float- 
ing Sargasso  Sea  is  permanent  only  in  appear- 
ance, and  when  finally  the  big  masses  drift,  with 
all  their  lesser,  attendant  freight  into  the  gulf 
stream,  then  life  becomes  a  sham.  There  can 
be  no  more  fruiting  or  sustained  development 
of  gas-filled  berries.  No  eggs  of  fish  or  crabs 
will  hatch,  no  new  generation  of  sea-horses  or 
mollusks  appear  among  the  stems.  Bravely  the 
fronds  float  along,  day  by  day  the  hundred  lit- 
tle lives  breathe  and  feed  and  cling  to  their  drift- 
ing home.  But  soon  the  gas  berries  decay  and 
the  fronds  sink  lower  and  lower.  As  the  current 
flows  northward,  and  the  water  becomes  colder 
the  crabs  move  less  rapidly,  the  fish  nibble  less 
eagerly  at  the  bits  of  passing  food.  Soon  a 
sea-horse  lets  go  and  falls  slowly  downward,  to 
be  snapped  up  at  once  or  to  sink  steadily  into 
the  eternal  dusk  and  black  night  of  deeper 
fathoms.  Soon  the  plant  follows  and  like  all  its 
chilled  pensioners,  dies.  The  supply  from  the 
Sargasso  Sea  seems  unfailing,  but  one's  sym- 
pathies are  touched  by  these  little  assemblages, 


20  JUNGLE  PEACE 

so  teeming  with  the  hope  of  life,  all  doomed 
by  the  current  which  is  at  once  their  support, 
their  breath  and  their  kismet. 

But  all  these  creatures,  interesting  as  they 
are,  form  but  a  tithe  of  the  life  existing  around 
and  beneath  the  ship.  Night  after  night  I  lean 
over  the  bow  and  watch  the  phosphorescence  flare 
and  flash  beneath  the  surface,  the  disturbance 
of  the  steamer's  approach  springing  a  myriad 
of  these  floating  mines,  whose  explosions,  gentler 
than  those  of  human  make,  merely  vibrate  into 
a  splendor  of  visibility.  How  to  capture  these 
tiny  beings  which  the  eye  can  scarcely  resolve  is  a 
matter  far  more  difficult  than  the  netting  of  the 
seaweed.  I  try  to  plan,  then  give  it  up.  I  walk 
restlessly  over  the  vessel,  seeking  some  method. 
But,  as  is  often  the  case,  nature  had  fairly  to  force 
the  solution  upon  me.  Thoreau  says  somewhere, 
"  A  trout  in  the  milk  is  pretty  good  circum- 
stantial evidence,"  and  in  similar  guise  I  saw  the 
light.  Early  one  morning  I  was  paddling  in  my 
salt-water  bath,  thinking  of  the  coming  week 
when  I  should  be  able  to  dive  into  island  harbors 
from  the  deck,  when  I  sat  up  suddenly  at  the 
sight  of  a  tiny  fish  disporting  himself  with  me 
in  the  tub.  At  least  I  needed  no  further  hint, 


SEA-WRACK  21 

and  as  I  scooped  up  the  little  being  my  plan  was 
made.  By  exhaustive  inquiry  among  the  femi- 
nine portion  of  the  passengers  I  obtained  pos- 
session of  a  small  square  of  a  very  fine-meshed 
fabric  something  like  bolting  cloth.  In  the 
evening,  with  the  assurance  of  a  small  monetary 
liaison  with  the  bath  steward,  I  tied  this  bit  of 
cloth  over  the  salt-water  nozzle  and  carefully 
set  the  faucet  so  that  a  dribble  of  water  trickled 
forth.  In  the  morning  the  cloth  strainer  con- 
tained a  small  blob  of  grayish  jelly.  This  I 
dropped  into  a  tumbler  and  saw  the  water  cloud 
with  an  opalescent  mist  of  a  myriad  motes  and 
I  knew  that  my  plan  was  successful.  No  matter 
how  tempestuous  the  sea,  or  at  what  speed  the 
ship  throbbed  through  the  water,  I  would  always 
be  able  to  gather  any  amount  of  the  wonderful 
floating  life  of  the  ocean — the  phosphorescent 
plankton — for  my  microscope.  Again,  aside 
from  my  own  edification,  I  was  able  to  give 
some  thrills  to  my  fellow  passengers,  and  I  have 
had  twenty  or  more  lined  up  for  a  squint  at 
the  weird  things  of  the  open  sea.  In  spite  of 
my  reassurances,  there  was  reported  to  be  less 
enthusiasm  for  the  daily  bath,  and  much  sus- 
picious inspection  of  the  clear  ocean  tub  water 


22  JUNGLE  PEACE 

as  a  result  of  glimpses  of  the  concentrated  cos- 
mos in  my  tumblers. 

I  can  recall  many  similar  diversions  and  dis- 
coveries of  new  possibilities  of  life  on  board 
ship,  but  one  brings  memories  of  especial  de- 
light. Next  to  the  crow's  nest  the  bow  is,  for 
me,  the  place  of  greatest  joy — the  spot  where 
each  moment  one's  eyes  reach  forward  into  a 
trackless,  unexplored  field  of  view;  a  heaving, 
translucent  No  Man's  Land,  fraught  with 
potentialities  such  as  sea-serpents.  Long  had 
I  pondered  the  possibility  of  getting  nearer  the 
fascinating  bit  of  unbroken  water  just  ahead. 
At  last  a  scheme  unfolded  itself,  but  not  until 
a  following  trip  when  I  had  made  all  prepara- 
tions did  I  venture  to  ask  permission  of  the 
Captain.  For  I  knew  better  than  to  wish  to 
add  anything  to  the  responsibility  of  this  offi- 
cial. When  he  had  become  used  to  my  eccentric 
use  of  the  deck  and  the  bath  tubs,  I  unfolded 
my  new  plan,  and  thanks  to  my  preparation, 
met  with  no  opposition.  I  had  a  waistcoat 
made  of  stout  leather  straps,  with  a  heavy 
ring  behind  to  which  I  attached  a  strong  rope. 
This  tethered  to  the  rail,  in  the  extreme  bow, 
enabled  me  to  swarm  safely  down  until  I 


SEA-WRACK  23 

reached  the  flukes  of  the  great  anchor.  Seating 
myself  comfortably,  I  lashed  my  leather  straps 
fast,  and  was  ready  for  work  with  glass  or  net 
or  camera.  Of  course  this  was  possible  only  on 
comparatively  calm  days,  but  when  the  sea  was 
mirror-like,  with  only  the  low,  heaving  swells 
bending  its  surface,  and  the  flying  fish  flushed 
before  us  in  schools,  then  I  had  days  of  good 
sport. 

This  novel  method  of  anchor  perching  led 
indirectly  to  the  solution  of  a  very  different 
puzzle.  I  had  been  thinking  and  talking  of  the 
congested  turmoil  of  the  great  city  far  below 
the  horizon  to  the  north.  Looking  back  on  a 
year  in  its  midst,  memory,  aroused  by  present 
contrasts,  registered  sham,  insincerity,  deceit,  il- 
lusion, veneer  as  dominant  notes  in  civilization. 
In  an  argument  one  evening  I  had  held  that 
deceit  or  illusion  was  not  of  necessity  evil,  nor 
when  unconsciously  self-imposed,  even  repre- 
hensible. 

The  next  day  I  instanced  a  rather  apt  ex- 
ample. Our  very  knowledge,  our  mental  mas- 
tery leads  us  to  false  sensory  assertions,  which 
become  so  universal  that  they  develop  into  ap- 
parent truisms.  Only  by  a  distinct  effort  may 


24  JUNGLE  PEACE 

we  summon  them  to  consciousness  and  correctly 
orient  them.  It  is  not  without  a  wrench  that 
we  set  aside  the  evidence  of  our  senses  and 
realize  the  proof  which  physics  offers.  We 
watch  the  glorious  "  sunset "  and  to  disillusion 
our  minds  require  to  repeat  again  and  again 
that  it  is  the  earth  which  is  heaving  upward, 
the  horizon  which  is  eclipsing  the  sun  and  the 
sky  of  day.  I  once  persuaded  a  group  of  pas- 
sengers to  speak  only  of  the  evening's  "earth- 
rise  "  and  in  three  or  four  days  this  term  had 
become  reasonable,  and  almost  lost  its  strange- 
ness. 

One  finds  numerous  examples  of  these  sensory 
deceits  at  sea;  our  senses  are  at  fault  in  every 
direction.  The  wind  flutters  the  fins  of  the  fly- 
ing fish  and  we  think  they  actually  fly.  The 
tropic  sea,  under  the  palest  of  green  skies,  is 
saturated  ultramarine,  save  where  the  propellers 
churn  it  to  pea-green,  yet  in  our  bath  the  water 
is  clear  and  colorless. 

My  most  interesting  oceanic  illusion,  was  a 
personal  one,  a  result  of  memory.  I  looked 
about  the  ship  and  felt  that  this  at  least  was 
wholly  sincere;  it  was  made  to  fulfil  every 
function  and  it  achieved  its  destiny  day  by  day, 


SEA-WRACK  25 

finally  and  completely.  I  had  never  sailed  on 
a  vessel  of  this  name  before,  the  "  Yamaro," 
and  yet  at  certain  moments  an  oblique  glance 
brought  a  flash  of  memory,  of  a  familiar  hatch- 
way, a  rail  which  fitted  snugly  under  one's 
elbows,  a  stretch  of  open  deck  which  seemed 
too  much  of  a  known  path  for  these  few  days' 
acquaintance.  As  I  talked  with  the  Trinidad 
negro  lookout  on  the  forward  deck,  I  saw  a 
brass  coolie  plate  roll  out  of  the  galley,  and  I 
wondered.  There  were  only  negroes  among 
the  crew.  Then  one  day  I  donned  my  leather 
waistcoat  and  climbed  down  to  my  anchor  flukes, 
and  my  mystery  was  solved.  In  clear  new 
letters  the  name  of  the  vessel  appeared 
along  the  side  of  the  bow  above  me,  but  a 
second  glance  showed  me  something  else: 
a  palimpsest  of  old  corroded  sites  of  four 
letters,  painted  out,  which  once  had  sent 
their  message  to  so  many  inquiring  eyes: 
Pegu. 

Long  ago,  on  trips  of  unalloyed  happiness,  I 
had  traveled  between  Colombo  and  Rangoon 
on  this  selfsame  steamer,  which  now,  caught  in 
some  unusual  stress  of  distant  demand  of  war, 
had  with  her  sister  ships  been  taken  from  her 


26  JUNGLE  PEACE 

route  in  the  Far  East  and  settled  to  her  new 
routine. 

So  even  the  ship  beneath  me  was  not  what 
she  had  seemed,  and  yet  her  deceit  and  illu- 
sion were  harmless,  wholly  without  guile,  and 
I  began  to  wonder  whether  my  unfriendly 
thoughts  of  the  great  city  behind  me  were  quite 
fair. 

The  carven  Wodens  and  Briinnhildes  who 
guarded  the  fortunes  of  old  Viking  ships, 
watched  the  icy  Arctic  waters  forever  cleft 
beneath  them  and  felt  the  sting  of  flying  splin- 
ters of  ice;  the  figureheads  of  Gloucester  mer- 
chantmen of  old,  with  wind  blown  draperies  and 
pious  hands,  counted  the  daily  and  monthly 
growth  of  barnacles,  and  noted  the  lengthening 
of  the  green  fronds  on  the  hull  below.  One  day 
I  lay  in  the  great  arms  of  an  anchor,  beneath  a 
prosaic  bow;  myself  the  only  figurehead,  peering 
gargoyle-wise  over  the  new-painted  steel.  Far 
below,  in  place  of  wooden  virgin  or  muscled 
Neptune,  there  appeared  only  four  numbers,  2, 
3,  4  and  25.  Even  these,  however,  yielded  to 
imagination  when  I  remembered  that  the  light 
cargo  which  made  them  visible  was  due  to  the 
need  of  sugar  by  soldiers  in  far  distant  trenches. 


SEA-WRACK  27 

The  great  unlovely  bow  rose  and  reached  for- 
ward and  settled  until,  as  I  lay  face  downward, 
our  speed  seemed  increased  many  fold.  And  I 
wondered  if  the  set  wooden  expression  which 
always  marked  the  figurehead  ladies  and  gods 
had  not  its  origin  in  the  hypnotic  joy  of  forever 
watching  the  molten  cobalt  crash  into  alabaster, 
this  to  emerald,  then  to  merge  again  into  the 
blue  which  is  a  hue  born  of  depth  and  space 
and  not  of  pigment.  And  now  I  forgot  the 
plunging  bow  beneath  and  the  schools  of  toy 
biplanes,  the  strange  little  grasshopper-like  fish 
which  burst  from  the  ultramarine,  unstained, 
f ull-fmned  and  banked  sharply  outward  for  their 
brief  span  of  flight.  I  looked  up  and  saw  pale- 
green  shallows,  a  thread  of  silver  surf  and  the 
rounded  mountains  of  a  tropical  island.  And  I 
frowned  with  impatience — something  that  more 
reliable  figureheads  never  did — for  the  island, 
teeming  with  interest,  with  exciting  birds,  and 
fascinating  people,  had  been  spoiled  for  me. 
Force  of  circumstance  had  shuffled  me  inex- 
tricably into  a  pack  (I  use  the  simile  advisedly) 
of  insufferable  tourists.  Effeminate  men,  child- 
ish women  and  spoiled  children  diluted  or  wholly 
eclipsed  every  possible  scene.  The  obvious 


28  JUNGLE  PEACE 

was  made  blatant,  the  superficial  was  imagined 
subtle,  the  glories  of  silent  appreciation  were 
shattered  by  garrulous  nothings.  At  the 
thought  of  such  fellow  countrymen  I  hid  my 
face  and  strived  with  all  my  might  to  obliterate 
the  remembrance.  Soothed  by  the  rise  and 
thrust  of  the  great  ship's  bow  and  the  inter- 
mittent roar  of  the  steel-born  breaker  beneath,  I 
rested  motionless. 

When  at  last  I  roused,  it  was  with  a  start  at 
the  altered  scene.  It  seemed  as  if  my  thought 
—Buddha-powerful — had  actually  wrought  the 
magic  of  widespread  change.  The  alabaster 
breaker  was  there,  but  oxidized,  dulled;  the 
cobalt  had  become  gray-black,  and  by  the  same 
alchemy  the  emerald  shallows  were  reset  with  a 
mosaic  of  age-dimmed  jade.  Most  of  all  was 
the  island  changed.  From  strand  to  cloud- 
capped  peak,  the  tone  was  purple.  In  high 
lights  it  hued  to  dull  silver-gray,  in  the  shadows 
it  deadened  to  utter  black.  Rugged  and  sheer 
Mont  Pelee  drew  upwards,  its  head  in  cloud, 
its  feet  in  the  sea — the  shadow-gray  sea.  My 
eye  strove  to  penetrate  the  cloud  and  picked 
from  its  heart  a  thread  of  black  among  the 
gray  lava,  which,  dropping  downward,  enlarged 


SEA-WRACK  29 

to  a  ribbon  and  then  to  a  gully.  In  ugly  angles 
and  sharp,  unreasonable  bends  it  zigzagged  down 
the  shoulder  of  the  great  cinderous  mountain. 
Before  I  realized  it  my  gully  became  a  gorge 
and  ended  at  the  edge  of  the  dark  waters,  as 
black  and  as  mysterious  as  it  had  begun. 

Idly,  I  lay  and  watched  the  silver  shuttle  of 
coral-shattered  foam  weaving  the  warp  and 
woof  of  the  rising  tide  along  the  whole  length 
of  shore.  This  seemed  the  only  bit  of  land 
in  the  whole  world.  Was  it  the  first — or  the 
last — to  appear  above  the  waters?  It  might 
have  been  either,  until,  suddenly  I  saw  a 
movement  among  what  I  had  taken  for  huge, 
crater-spewed  boulders,  but  which  I  now  knew 
for  the  weathered  remains  of  a  city.  From  be- 
tween two  walls  of  this  city  of  the  dead  came 
slowly  into  view  the  last  human  being  in  the 
world — or  so  the  surroundings  suggested.  Yet 
a  second  glance  belied  this,  for  her  mission  was 
fraught  with  hope.  Even  at  this  distance  I 
could  discern  her  stately  carriage,  swinging  and 
free,  her  black  countenance  and  her  heavy  bur- 
den. At  the  very  edge  of  the  water  she  stopped, 
lifted  down  the  basket  piled  with  black  volcanic 
debris  and  emptied  it.  She  stood  up,  looked 


30  JUNGLE  PEACE 

steadily  out  at  the  passing  steamer  and  vanished 
among  the  shadows  of  the  ruins.  It  was  star- 
tlingly  like  the  first  grain  of  sand  which  an  ant 
brings  out  after  a  passing  heel  has  crushed 
its  nest.  But  however  vivid  the  simile,  the  domi- 
nant thought  was  hope.  At  least  one  ant  had 
faith  in  a  new  ant-nest  of  the  future,  and  the 
somber  picture  of  the  negress,  her  basket  of 
black  lava  poured  into  the  equally  black  waters, 
was  suddenly  framed  in  high  relief  by  the 
thought  of  a  new  St.  Pierre.  The  great 
mountain  still  rumbled  and  smoked*  One 
at  least  believed  in  a  home  in  its  very 
shadows. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  The  island  had 
been  for  me  unhappily  visited;  its  passing  had 
been  a  sudden,  wonderfully  dynamic  vision. 
And  now  I  shut  my  eyes  again  to  strive  to  in- 
terpret and  to  fix  indelibly  in  mind  this  vision 
and  all  the  network  of  thoughts  it  wove.  Again 
the  roar  from  below  and  the  gentle  rise  and  for- 
ward surge  calmed  and  rested  me.  And  the 
thought  of  the  unhappy  morning  was  become 
dim  and  carried  no  resentment. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  looked  up  again  and 
found  all  changed — no  ruthless,  startling  shift 


SEA-WRACK  31 

of  values,  but  a  subtle,  all-wonderful  transfor- 
mation. Pelee  should  still  have  loomed  high, 
the  craters  and  gullys  were  but  a  short  distance 
away  and  indeed  all  were  faintly  discernible. 
A  faint  veil  of  azure  had  intervened.  There 
was  no  wind,  it  had  neither  drifted  in  from 
the  sea  nor  frayed  from  the  edges  of  the 
dense  cloud  which  enveloped  the  peak.  So 
evanescent,  so  delicate  was  this  still-born  haze 
that  the  crater  cloud  was  only  softened,  not 
eclipsed.  From  the  strong  sweep  and  stroke 
and  virile  outline  of  a  Brangwyn  or  the 
gnomesque  possibilities  of  a  Rackham,  the  great 
mountain  softened  to  the  ethereal  air  cas- 
tle of  a  Parrish.  Between  winks,  as  imper- 
ceptibly as  the  coming  of  twilight  to  a  cloudless 
sky,  the  vision  changed  to  a  veritable  Isle  of 
Death.  This  seemed  too  evanescent,  too  ether- 
eally fragile  to  endure,  and  yet  for  moment 
after  moment  it  held  and  held — and  then  the 
mountain — which  was  yet  but  the  shadow  of  a 
mountain — this  itself  dissolved,  and  over  the 
gently  heaving  sea,  were  neither  lava  flows  nor 
cinders,  gorges  nor  ruins,  but  only  a  faint 
pearly-white  mist,  translucent,  permeable,  float- 
ing softly  between  sea  and  sky.  Martinique 


$2  JUNGLE  PEACE 

had    vanished — had    dissolved — there    was    no 
longer  any  land  above  the  waters. 

Dusk  settled  quickly  and  the  vision  remained 
unbroken.  All  my  sensory  relations  with  the 
world  seemed  inverted.  My  actual  contact  with 
the  island  had  passed  into  happy  f orgetf ulness ; 
the  coastal  vision  was  more  vivid  and  real,  and 
now,  the  essence  of  memory,  the  vital,  tangible 
retrospect  was  forever  bound  up  in  the  final 
vanishing,  the  very  evaporation  of  this  island- 
lapped  by  the  sea — the  sea  which  tomorrow's 
sun  would  fill  with  the  glorious  hue  of  sapphires 
— the  sapphires  of  Kashmir. 


Ill 

ISLANDS 

WITH  thrice  seven-league  boots  one  could 
stride  from  the  coast  of  the  United  States  and 
with  a  dozen  steps  reach  British  Guiana  dry- 
shod.  From  an  aviator's  seat,  the  chain  of  West 
Indies,  Windward  and  Leeward  Islands  curves 
gracefully  southwards,  like  stepping-stones 
across  a  Japanese  stream.  If,  corresponding  to 
this  annihilation  of  space,  we  could  abbreviate 
minutes,  hours  and  days  as  in  a  moving-picture 
film,  we  might  have  the  edifying  spectacle  of 
our  steamer's  trip  reduced  to  a  succession  of 
loops,  ricochetting  from  island  after  island,  as 
a  stone  skips  along  the  surface  of  the  water, 
sliding  along  those  dotted  lines  which  are  so 
characteristic  a  feature  of  coasts  in  our  school 
geographies,  and  coming  to  rest  at  last  with  a 
splash  in  the  muddy  current  off  the  Georgetown 
stalling. 

Our  steamer  is  preferable  to  the  seven-league 

33 


34  JUNGLE  PEACE 

trip,  for  we  thereby  omit  the  big,  cumbersome 
West  Indies.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  any  land 
projecting  above  the  surface  of  the  water  is  in- 
teresting and  exciting  in  inverse  ratio  to  its 
size.  The  endless  New  Jersey  shore  moves  one 
not  at  all,  while  the  single  volcanic  cone  of 
Nevis  brings  thrills  and  emotions;  Cuba  is 
wearisome  as  one  steams  slowly  past  headland 
after  headland,  while  Sombrero — a  veritable 
oceanic  speck  of  dust — stimulates  the  imagina- 
tion to  the  highest  pitch.  It  seems  as  if  our 
Ego  enlarges  as  our  immediate  terrestrial  cos- 
mos diminishes.  In  studying  the  birds  of  the 
endless  jungles  of  the  South  American  conti- 
nent my  interest  never  flags,  yet  it  never  quite 
attains  the  nth  power  of  enthusiasm  which  ac- 
companies the  thought  of  the  possibility  of  locat- 
ing every  nest  on  St.  Thomas.  This  love  of 
small  islands  must  savor  of  the  joy  of  possible 
completeness  in  achievement,  plus  a  king's  sen- 
sations, plus  some  of  those  of  Adam! 

Any  guide  book  will  give  the  area,  popula- 
tion, amusements,  best  hotels  (or  the  least  ob- 
jectionable ones),  summary  of  history  and  the 
more  important  exports.  But  no  one  has  ever 
attempted  to  tell  of  the  soul  of  these  islands— 


ISLANDS  35 

or  even  of  the  individuality  of  each,  which  is 
very  real  and  very  distinct.  Some  day  this 
will  be  done,  and  the  telling  will  be  very  won- 
derful, and  will  use  up  most  of  the  superlatives 
in  our  language.  For  my  part  I  may  only 
search  my  memory  for  some  little  unimportant 
scene  .which  lives  again  when  the  name  of  the 
island  is  spoken — and  string  these  at  random 
on  pages,  like  the  chains  of  little  scarlet  and 
black  sea-beans  which  glisten  in  the  fingers  of 
the  negresses,  held  up  in  hope  of  sale  from 
their  leaky  boats,  rocking  on  the  liquid  emerald 
around  the  steamer. 

ST.  THOMAS,  OR  How  I  WAS  TAUGHT  TO 
CATCH  LIZARDS  BY  A  DANISH  FLAPPER.— 
Nearly  a  week  had  passed  since  we  began  to 
exchange  a  sleety  winter  for  the  velvety  tropics, 
to  traverse  the  latitude  spectrum  of  ocean  from 
drab-gray  to  living  turquoise.  As  on  every  trip, 
it  was  early  morning  when  the  long  undulating 
profile  of  St.  Thomas  reared  itself  lazily  from 
the  sea,  and  almost  at  once,  flocks  of  great- 
winged  booby-gannets  began  to  wheel  and  veer 
around  the  ship,  banking  in  a  way  to  make  an 
aviator's  blood  leap. 

From  a  dusky  monochrome  the  land  resolved 


36  JUNGLE  PEACE 

into  shades,  and  slowly  into  colors — gray  vol- 
canic rocks,  dry  yellow  turf  and  green  patches 
of  trees.  Then  contours  became  traceable, 
smooth  rounded  shoulders  of  hills  frayed  out 
into  jagged  strata,  with  the  close-shaven  fur  of 
bushes  and  shrubs,  and  occasional  tall  slender 
palms  reminding  one  of  single  hydroids  on  the 
sargasso  fronds.  A  thread  of  smoke  drifting 
free  from  a  palm  grove  was  the  first  sign  of 
life,  and  after  a  few  minutes  of  twisting  and 
turning,  the  steamer  nosed  out  her  circuitous 
channel,  and  from  the  very  heart  of  the  island 
the  great  crater  harbor  opened  before  us. 

The  beautiful  hills  rolled  up  and  upward,  and 
to  their  feet  Charlotte  Amalie,  crowned  with 
Bluebeard's  castle,  clung  obliquely,  her  streets 
climbing  with  astonishing  steepness.  The  little 
town  was  newly  roofed,  all  the  picturesque  old 
red  ones  having  been  ripped  off  in  the  last  hur- 
ricane. The  houses  were  as  flat,  quite  as  like 
cardboard  theatrical  scenery  as  ever. 

At  the  sight  of  a  distant  flag  I  endeavored 
to  thrill  patriotically  at  the  thought  that  this 
island  was  now  a  part  of  the  United  States.  I 
would  have  been  more  successful,  however,  if  I 
could  have  recalled  the  vision  of  some  fellow 


ISLANDS  37 

countryman  in  far  distant  time,  landing  on  these 
slopes  and  taking  possession  by  right  of  dis- 
covery. Even  if  some  burly,  semi-piratical 
American  adventurer  had  annexed  it  for  his 
president  by  feat  of  arms,  my  blood  would  have 
flowed  less  calmly  than  it  did  at  the  thought  of 
so  many  millions  of  dollars  paid  as  droit  de 
possession.  However,  a  tropic  bird  flew  past 
and  put  the  lesser  matter  out  of  mind. 

As  always,  near  the  wharf  thrived  the  same 
little  open  bar-room,  with  its  floral-bedecked 
mirrors,  selling  good  beer  and  vile  soda.  Aside 
from  a  flag  here  and  there,  the  only  sign  of 
the  change  of  nationality  was  several  motor- 
cycles with  side  cars  which  American  soldiers 
drove  like  Jehu  through  the  narrow  streets,  hus- 
tling natives  and  their  tiny  carts  and  ponies  to 
one  side,  and  leaving  enduring  trains  of  gasoline- 
scented  dust.  A  few  minutes'  walk  up  one  of 
the  steep  streets  and  all  was  quiet  and  unhur- 
ried, and  the  sense  of  a  yet  undigested  posses- 
sion, of  embarrassing  novelty  of  purchase, 
slipped  aside  and  we  knew  that  St.  Thomas 
was  still  the  unspoiled  little  island  which  the 
slow  mellowing  growth  of  West  Indian  evolu- 
tion had  made  it.  We  climbed  slowly  up  the 


38  JUNGLE  PEACE 

steep  road  toward  Mafolie,  and  behind  us  the 
glory  of  this  wonderful  island  unfolded  and 
spread,  the  roofs  of  the  town  shifting  into 
strange  geometric  figures,  and  the  harbor  circle 
widening.  We  passed  pleasant  sunburned 
Danes  and  negroes  driving  tiny  burros  laden 
with  small  fagots  and  with  grass.  At  one  turn 
a  tamarind  tree  was  in  full  blossom,  and  here 
were  gathered  all  the  hummingbirds  and  butter- 
flies of  the  island,  or  so  it  seemed.  At  last  we 
reached  a  ravine,  dry  as  everything  else  at  this 
season  on  the  island,  and  walked  slowly  up  it, 
catching  butterflies.  They  were  in  great  num- 
bers and  gayly  colored.  The  strangest  sight 
was  hundreds  of  large,  brown  millipedes  cling- 
ing to  the  stems  of  bushes  and  small  trees, 
apparently  finding  more  moisture  in  the  steady 
tradewinds  than  in  the  soil,  which  even  under 
large  stones,  was  parched  and  dry:  dragonflies 
were  abundant,  but  the  dominant  forms  of  in- 
sect life  were  butterflies  and  spiders. 

The  road  wound  over  the  top  of  the  ridge 
and  from  its  summit  we  looked  down  on  the 
other  half  of  the  island.  No  house  or  trace  of 
cultivation  was  visible  and  the  beauty  of  the 
view  was  beyond  adequate  description.  Roll- 


ISLANDS  39 

ing,  comfortably  undulating  hills  were  below  us, 
and  in  front  a  taller,  rounded  one  like  the  head  of 
some  wearied  tropical  giant.  Beyond  this,  a  long 
curved  arm  of  richest  green  had  been  stretched 
carelessly  out  into  the  sea,  inclosing  a  bay, 
which  from  our  height,  looked  like  a  small  pool, 
but  such  a  pool  as  would  grace  a  Dunsany  tale. 
It  was  limpid,  its  surface  like  glass  and  of  the 
most  exquisite  turquoise.  Its  inner  rim  was  of 
pure  white  sand,  a  winding  line  bounding  tur- 
quoise water  and  the  rich,  dark  green  of  the 
sloping  land  in  a  flattened  figure  three.  I  never 
knew  before  that  turquoise  had  a  hundred  tints 
and  shades,  but  here  the  film  nearest  the  sand 
was  unbelievably  pale  and  translucent,  then  a 
deeper  sheen  overlaid  the  surface,  while  the 
center  of  the  pool  was  shaded  with  the  inde- 
scribable pigment  of  sheer  depth.  In  a  great 
frame  of  shifting  emerald  and  cobalt,  set  a  shin- 
ing blue  wing  of  a  morpho  butterfly  and  you 
can  visualize  this  wonder  scene. 

Outside  the  encircling  green  arm,  the  water 
of  ocean  glowed  ultramarine  in  the  slanting  sun- 
light, and  stretched  on  and  on  to  the  curving 
horizon  of  Atlantis.  The  scene  seemed  the 
essence  of  peace,  and  to  the  casual  glance  hardly 


40  JUNGLE  PEACE 

a  cloud  moved.  I  sat  for  a  long  time  and  let 
every  part  of  my  retina  absorb  the  glory  of 
colors.  Soon  motion  and  life  became  apparent. 
Shadows  shifted  softly  across  the  surface,  bring- 
ing hues  of  delicate  purplish  blue,  memory  tints 
of  open  ocean,  and  against  these  darkened  tones 
a  thousand  specks  of  white  glowed  and  inter- 
weaved  like  a  maze  of  motes  in  a  shaft  of  sun- 
light. In  imagination  we  could  enlarge  them  to 
a  swarm  of  silvery  bees,  and  then  my  glasses 
resolved  them  into  gannets — great  sea  birds 
with  wings  six  feet  from  tip  to  tip — an  astound- 
ing hint  of  the  actual  distance  and  depth  below 
me  of  this  pool-like  bay.  An  hour  later  the 
sunlight  left  the  turquoise  surface,  and  its  blue- 
ness  darkened  and  strengthened  and  became 
opaque,  although  it  was  a  long  time  before 
sunset,  and  the  ocean  beyond  kept  all  its  bril- 
liance. 

My  eye  was  drawn  to  two  tiny  dots  on  the 
sandy  rim.  I  could  just  make  out  that  they 
were  moving  and  guessed  them  to  be  dogs  or 
chickens.  The  glasses  made  magic  again  and 
split  up  each  group  into  a  triumvirate  of  little 
burros  which  trotted  along,  and  presently  turned 
into  an  invisible  side  trail.  Perhaps  the  most 


ISLANDS  41 

fascinating  discovery  of  motion  was  that  of  the 
water's  edge.  To  the  eye  there  were  neither 
waves  nor  ripples,  but  careful  scrutiny  through 
the  strong  prisms  showed  a  rhythmical  approach 
and  receding,  a  gentle  breathlike  pulsation  which 
regularly  darkened  and  uncovered  a  thread  of 
sand.  I  forgot  the  busy  little  town  on  the  other 
side  of  the  island,  the  commerce  and  coaling 
and  the  distant  echo  of  war,  and  giving  a  last 
look  at  the  tarnished  turquoise  pool,  the  resent- 
ment of  financial  acquisition  of  such  beauty 
softened,  and  I  felt  glad  that  I  had  indirectly 
some  small  tithe  of  ownership,  as  well  as  the 
complete  memory  monopoly  of  the  glories  of 
this  passing  day. 

As  I  made  my  way  down  the  ravine,  the 
fascinating  island  lizards  scrambled  about  or 
watched  me  knowingly  from  rock  or  tree-trunk. 
As  usual  I  wrecked  my  net  in  striving  to  sweep 
them  into  it,  and  bruised  my  fingers  in  vain 
efforts  to  seize  their  slender  forms.  Rarely  I 
succeeded;  usually  I  found  but  a  bit  of  tail  in 
my  fingers,  or  a  handful  of  loose  bark,  while, 
just  out  of  reach,  they  would  halt  and  look  me 
over  derisively  with  their  bright  intelligent  eyes. 
At  the  roadside  I  came  suddenly  upon  a  little 


4£  JUNGLE  PEACE 

Danish  girl  of  about  twelve  years,  dancing 
excitedly  with  a  lizard  dangling  from  the  end  of 
a  slender  grass  stem. 

Her  blue  eyes  flashed  with  excitement,  her 
yellow  pigtail  flew  wildly  about  as  she  danced 
and  backed  away,  fearful  of  touching  the  little 
lizard,  and  yet  too  fascinated  to  drop  it  and 
allow  it  to  escape.  I  took  it  up  and  found  it 
had  been  captured  with  a  neat  slip  noose.  She 
said  it  was  easy  to  catch  them  and  showed  me 
how,  and  before  I  reached  the  wharf  I  had  a 
dozen  of  the  interesting  little  chaps  stored  in 
various  pockets.  Thus  after  years  of  effort  a 
little  Danish  school  girl  solved  my  problem 
for  me.  Acting  on  this  hint  I  tried  fine 
hair  wire,  but  nothing  proved,  as  effective 
as  the  thin,  pliant  but  strong  stems  of 
grass. 

It  is  surprising  how  difficult  it  is  to  touch 
these  little  reptiles  and  yet  how  easy  to  noose 
them.  At  the  approach  of  hand  or  net  they  are 
off  faster  than  the  eye  can  follow,  yet  they  are 
merely  interested  in  the  waving  grass.  Even 
when  by  an  awkward  motion  one  flicks  their 
nose,  they  merely  shake  their  heads  or  shift  a 
step  or  two.  They  detect  no  connection  be- 


ISLANDS  43 

tween  the  moving  grass  and  the  more  distant 
hand  that  wields  it. 

Bound  to  the  ground  by  their  short  scales 
and  four  limbs,  these  small  lizards  are  yet  re- 
markably birdlike  in  their  vivacity  and  their 
enthusiastic  playing  of  their  little  game  of  life. 
Every  motion  is  registered  by  quick  wrenlike 
movements  and  by  the  changing  play  of  colors 
over  their  scales,  while  when  particularly  ex- 
cited, they  puff  out  a  comical  dewlap  of  yellow 
and  orange  skin  beneath  their  throat.  Thanks 
to  my  flapper  acquaintance  I  am  now  on  more 
equal  terms  with  the  little  scaly  people  of  the 
islands,  and  can  study  their  puzzling  color 
problems  at  close  range. 

Looking  back  at  Bluebeard's  and  Black- 
beard's  castles  from  the  deck  of  our  vessel  as  we 
slowly  steamed  from  the  harbor,  some  one  asked 
when  the  last  pirate  plied  his  trade.  I  looked 
ashore  at  the  fort  and  guns,  I  listened  to  the 
warning  bugle,  I  watched  the  scattered  lights 
vanish,  leaving  all  of  the  town  in  darkness,  I 
saw  our  own  darkened  portholes  and  shaded 
lights.  As  my  mind  went  to  the  submarines 
which  inspired  all  these  precautions,  as  I  re- 
called the  sinister  swirl  in  the  Atlantic  which 


44  JUNGLE  PEACE 

had  threatened  us  more  than  once  on  my  return 
from  the  battle-front,  I  could  answer  truly  that 
Bluebeard  and  his  ilk  were  worthily  represented 
at  the  present  day.  Indeed,  of  the  two  enemies, 
I  found  much  more  to  condone  in  the  ignorance 
and  the  frank  primitive  brutality  of  the  pirate 
of  past  centuries,  than  in  the  prostituted  science 
and  camouflaged  kultur  of  the  teutonic  ishmaelite 
of  today. 

ST.  KITTS,  A  PLUNGE,  EXPLORATION  AND 
MONKEYS. — I  came  on  deck  at  daybreak  and 
found  the  sea  like  a  mirror.  Even  the  clouds 
were  undisturbed,  resting  quietly  in  the  moun- 
tain valleys  of  St.  Eustatius,  and  on  the  upper 
slopes  of  St.  Kitts  in  the  distance.  The  tropical 
morning  was  a  lazy  one,  and  the  engines  seemed 
to  throb  in  a  half-somnolent  manner.  I  folded 
up  into  a  deck  chair  and  idly  watched  the  beau- 
tiful profile  of  the  island  astern. 

Suddenly  the  sea  became  alive  with  virile 
beings — curving  steel-gray  bodies  which  shot 
forth  like  torpedoes  from  some  mighty  battery. 
I  thrilled  in  every  fiber  and  the  sloth  of  the 
tropics  fell  from  me  as  if  by  a  galvanic  shock: 
the  dolphins  had  come!  Usually  they  appear 
in  their  haunts  between  Dominica  and  Marti- 


ISLANDS  45 

nique  or  off  the  latter  island,  but  here  they  were 
in  dozens,  leaping  for  breath  with  the  regularity 
of  machinery.  Now  and  then  the  spirit  of  play 
would  possess  one  and  he  vaulted  high  in  air, 
ten  feet  above  the  surface,  twisted  and  fell 
broadside  with  a  slap  which  could  be  heard  a 
half-mile  away.  Then  several  simultaneously 
did  the  same  thing.  A  school  would  come  close 
alongside,  slacken  speed  to  that  of  the  vessel, 
and  now  and  then  dive  beneath  and  appear  off 
the  opposite  quarter.  Another  trick  was  for  one 
or  two  to  station  themselves  just  ahead  of  the 
bow  and  remain  motionless,  urged  on  by  the 
pressure  of  the  water  from  behind.  It  was 
very  unexpected  and  very  splendid  to  have  this 
battalion  of  magnificent  cetaceans,  bursting  with 
vital  energy  and  fullness  of  life,  injected  with- 
out warning  into  the  calm  quiet  of  this  tropical 
sea. 

We  anchored  off  Basseterre  and  waited  in 
vain  for  the  doctor.  There  seemed  no  chance  of 
landing  for  some  time,  so  several  of  us  dived 
off  and  swam  about  the  ship  for  an  hour.  The 
joy  of  this  tropical  water  is  something  which 
can  be  communicated  only  by  experience.  It 
was  so  transparent  that  in  diving  one  hardly 


46  JUNGLE  PEACE 

knew  the  moment  he  would  enter  it.  Paddling 
along  just  beneath  the  surface,  there  was  a  con- 
stant temptation  to  reach  down  and  grasp  the 
waving  seaferns  and  bits  of  coral  which  seemed 
only  just  out  of  reach,  whereas  they  were  a 
good  thirty  feet  beneath.  Whether  floating  idly 
or  barging  clumsily  along  in  the  only  fashion 
possible  to  us  terrestrial  humans,  we  longed  for 
the  sinuous  power  of  the  dolphins,  whose  easy 
sculling  imparts  such  astounding  impetus.  Now 
and  then  we  saw  a  deep  swimming  fish,  but  the 
line  of  envious  fellow  voyagers  along  the  ship's 
rail  were  denied  all  this  joy  by  reason  of  their 
fear  of  sharks.  They  had  read  in  many  books 
and  they  had  listened  to  many  tales,  and  they 
do  not  know  what  we  shared  with  the  little  nig- 
ger boys  who  dive  for  pennies — the  knowledge 
that  the  chance  of  an  attack  from  a  shark  is 
about  equal  to  that  of  having  your  ears  sewed  up 
by  devil's  darning  needles.  Over  all  the  world 
I  have  swum  among  sharks ;  from  Ceylon  to  the 
Spanish  Main  I  have  talked  intimately  with 
scores  of  native  captains  and  sailors  and  learned 
the  difference  between  what  they  tell  to  the 
credulous  tourist  and  what  they  believe  in  their 
hearts. 


Sunset  in   the  West  Indies 


ISLANDS  47 

In  time  the  St.  Kitts  doctor  arrived,  and,  as 
he  rowed  past,  looked  at  us  critically  as  if  he 
suspected  us  of  infecting  the  waters  of  the  sea 
with  some  of  those  mysteriously  terrible  diseases 
which  he  is  always  hoping  for  on  the  ship's 
papers,  but  never  seems  to  find. 

Walking  hastily  through  the  town,  we  reached 
the  first  of  the  great  sugar-cane  fields,  and  skirt- 
ing these  diagonally  came  ever  nearer  the  slop- 
ing base  of  the  high  land.  Ravines  are  always 
interesting  for  they  cannot  be  cultivated,  and  it 
was  up  one  of  these  lava  and  water-worn  gullies 
that  we  began  to  climb  Monkey  Hill.  We  went 
slowly,  for  there  were  many  absorbing  things 
on  the  way.  Palm  swifts  swooped  about,  while 
noisy  kingbirds  gleaned  as  industriously  but 
with  shorter  flights.  Heavy-billed  anis  wha- 
leeped  and  fluttered  clumsily  ahead  of  us ;  honey 
creepers  squeaked  and  small  black  finches 
watched  us  anxiously.  From  a  marshy  pool 
half  a  dozen  migrating  sandpipers  flew  up  and 
circled  down  to  the  shore.  Every  shrubby  field 
was  alive  with  butterflies  of  many  kinds  and  the 
vigorous  shaking  of  each  bush  yielded  excellent 
harvests  of  strange  insects  which  fell  into  the 
open  umbrella  held  beneath.  In  a  grove  of 


48  JUNGLE  PEACE 

wild  mango  and  acacias  were  hosts  of  green 
filigree  butterflies,  dropping  and  swirling  from 
the  foliage  like  falling  leaves,  the  comparison 
being  heightened  by  the  brown  spots,  Jike 
fungus  blotches,  which  were  etched  upon  their 
wings. 

Leaving  the  ravine  we  climbed  over  great 
lateral  shoulders  of  the  mountain,  grassy  slopes 
with  bold  out  jutting  rocks,  and  rarely  a  clump 
of  small  shrubs,  bringing  to  mind  the  lower 
foothills  of  Garhwal  and  Kashmir.  Higher 
still  came  dense  shrubby  growths,  much  of  it 
thorny,  seamed  by  our  narrow  trail,  and 
threaded  here  and  there  by  glowing  fronds  of 
golden  shower  orchids.  Ground  doves  perched 
on  low  branches  and  an  occasional  big  pigeon 
whistled  past.  From  the  summit  a  wonderful 
view  stretched  out — the  long,  sloping  green  cane- 
fields,  the  clustered  roofs,  and  beyond  the  curv- 
ing beaches,  the  blue  water  with  our  vessel  rest- 
ing at  anchor.  Now  came  a  search  for  monkeys, 
regardless  of  thorns  and  rough  stones,  for, 
strange  though  it  sounds,  St.  Kitts  possesses 
many  of  these  animals.  Whatever  the  accident 
of  their  arrival,  they  are  firmly  established  and 
work  much  havoc  in  the  small  hours,  among  gar- 


ISLANDS  49 

dens  and  sugar-cane.  Our  efforts  were  in  vain. 
We  heard  the  scolding  chatter  of  one  of  the 
small  simians,  and  were  preparing  to  surround 
him,  when  a  warning  blast  from  the  ship  sum- 
moned us  and  we  packed  up  our  collection  of 
insects  and  flowers,  munched  our  last  piece  of 
chocolate  and  began  to  clamber  down  the  great 
sun-drenched  slopes. 

MARTINIQUE,  OR  A  NEW  USE  FOR  AN  EIGHT 
OF  HEARTS. — Columbus  thought  that  this  island 
was  inhabited  only  by  women,  and  to  this  day 
the  market  place  bears  out  the  idea.  It  is  a 
place  apart  from  all  the  rest  of  the  city.  In 
early  morning,  before  the  gaudy  shutters  were 
taken  down,  the  streets  were  quiet — the  callous 
soles  of  the  passersby  made  the  merest  velvet 
shuffling  and  only  an  occasional  cry  of  the 
vendor  of  some  strange  fruit  or  cakes  broke  the 
stillness.  When  yet  half  a  block  away  from  the 
market  one  became  aurally  aware  of  it.  The  air 
was  filled  with  a  subdued  hum,  an  indefinite 
murmur  which  might  as  well  be  the  sound  of 
tumbling  waters  as  of  human  voices.  It  was  a 
communal  tongue,  lacking  individual  words, 
accent  and  grammar,  and  yet  containing  the  es- 
sence of  a  hundred  little  arguments,  soliloquies, 


50  JUNGLE  PEACE 

pleadings,  offers  and  refusals.  After  the  aural 
came  the  olfactory  zone,  and  none  may  describe 
this,  so  intermingled  that  fish  and  vegetables, 
spice  and  onions  were  only  to  be  detected  when 
one  approached  their  respective  booths. 

The  details  of  market  life  hold  the  possibili- 
ties of  epic  description;  the  transactions  of  a 
stock  exchange  pale  into  mediocrity  when  com- 
pared with  the  noise  and  excitement  when  a 
sixpence  changes  hands  between  Martinique 
negresses. 

All  the  sales  in  the  market  were  of  the  small- 
est quantities;  little  silver  was  seen,  pennies, 
ha'pennies  and  sous  composing  all  the  piles  of 
coppers.  The  colors  of  the  fruits  were  like 
flowers,  melons  white  with  a  delicate  fretwork 
of  green;  brilliant  touches  of  red  peppers  like 
scarlet  passion  flowers;  tiny  bits  of  garlic  lilac- 
tinted.  The  fish  had  the  hues  of  sunsets  on  their 
scales,  and  the  most  beautiful,  the  angelfish, 
were  three  for  a  penny,  while  the  uglier,  more 
edible  ones,  were  sixpence  each.  Beauty  was 
rated  at  inverse  value  here. 

Around  and  around  the  iron  fence  which 
bounded  the  market  place,  paced  a  pitiful  pair 
—a  tiny  black  mite  who  could  not  have  passed 


ISLANDS  51 

three  summers,  leading  by  the  hem  of  an  ample 
black  skirt  an  old  blind  woman.  After  several 
halting  steps  they  would  hesitate  and  the  gaunt 
hand  would  be  thrust  through  the  bars  begging 
for  market  refuse.  Once  the  gods  were  kind 
tad  a  bit  of  melon  and  a  spotted  mango  were 
given,  but  more  often  alms  was  asked  of  an 
empty  stall,  or  within  sight  only  of  a  tethered 
duck  or  chicken.  Some  of  the  gifts  were  no 
better  than  the  garbage  over  which  the  pair 
stepped. 

We  sat  in  chairs  in  a  tiny  pharmacist  shop— 
the  artist  and  I — and  were  at  once  the  center 
of  a  chattering,  staring  throng,  a  kaleidoscope 
of  shifting  colors.  We  shoved  and  dismissed  to 
no  avail,  then  the  owner  of  the  shop  with  a 
gentle  "  permitte-moi  "  threw  a  pailful  of  "  not- 
too-clean  "  water  over  the  crowd,  including  the 
artist  and  myself.  The  mob  scattered  shriek- 
ing and  for  a  short  time  the  surrounding  space 
was  open.  Soon  a  larger  crowd  gathered,  with 
the  still  dripping  units  of  the  first  assemblage 
smiling  expectantly  in  the  offing,  hovering  at  a 
safe  distance.  The  second  dispersal  had  a  legal 
origin;  the  market  policeman  stole  quietly  along 
the  wall  of  the  shop  and  hurled  himself  like  a 


52  JUNGLE  PEACE 

catapult,  butting  goatlike  into  the  heart  of  the 
crowd.  A  half-dozen  fat  negresses  toppled  over, 
and  cassava,  tin  cups  and  stray  fishes  flew  about. 
Even  those  who  lost  all  their  purchases  showed 
no  resentment  but  only  a  roaring  appreciation 
of  the  joke.  In  this  rush  we  were  almost 
upset  with  the  crowd,  and  we  began  to  look 
forward  with  dread  to  any  more  strenuous  de- 
fense of  our  comfort. 

The  little  French  mulatto  pharmacist  who  was 
responsible  for  the  occasional  joyful  outbursts 
of  eau,  seemed  to  profit  by  our  presence,  for  a 
number  of  interested  onlookers  who  had  pushed 
into  the  shop  to  watch  us  from  behind,  when 
cornered  and  hailed  by  the  irate  owner,  stam- 
meringly  asked  for  some  small  thing,  by  the 
purchase  of  which  they  bought  their  liberty. 
The  regular  business  of  this  little  shop  alone 
was  worthy  one's  whole  attention.  A  prescrip- 
tion was  being  pounded  up  in  a  mortar  and 
when  the  clerk  reached  out  for  a  scoop  and  for 
something  to  scrape  the  sides  clean,  an  eight  of 
hearts  was  the  nearest  and  with  this  the  chemi- 
cals were  mixed.  Within  the  next  fifteen  min- 
utes eight  or  ten  different  prescriptions,  pow- 
ders and  crystals  were  measured,  shaken,  mixed 


ISLANDS  53 

and  scraped  by  the  same  eight  of  hearts,  and 
the  combination  of  ingredients  which  the  last 
purchaser  obtained  must  surely  have  had  some 
radical  effect  on  his  system — salubrious  or  other- 
wise. 

Then  came  the  unusual  one — the  super  person 
who  is  always  to  be  discovered  sooner  or  later. 
Externally  she  was  indistinguishable  from  the 
host  of  her  sisters.  She  was  garbed  in  a 
wrapper,  flowing  and  reaching  the  ground, 
purple,  and  pocked  with  large  white  spots.  A 
diminutive  turban  of  yellow  and  red  madras 
was  surmounted  by  an  ancient  and  crownless 
straw  hat,  but  at  the  first  word  she  was  revealed. 
A  British  subject,  she  was  here  at  the  eruption 
fifteen  years  ago.  That  day  she  and  one  of  her 
daughters  happened  to  be  far  away  from  St. 
Pierre.  When  the  explosion  came,  she  was  out- 
side the  danger  zone,  but  her  husband,  son  and 
other  daughter  were  burned  to  death.  She  re- 
gretted the  impoliteness  of  the  French  here  and 
apologized  for  them  for  crowding  us.  Later 
she  brought  a  gift  of  rose  bananas  to  Mary 
Hammond,  saying  that  Americans  had  given 
her  food  and  clothes  when  she  lost  everything. 

The  crowd  was  curious,  thoughtless,  selfish, 


54  JUNGLE  PEACE 

with  the  dominant  hope  a  laugh  at  some  one's 
expense.  Here  was  one  who  sought  us  out, 
who  left  unguarded  her  little  tray  of  bananas 
and  garlic  to  speak  a  word  of  thanks,  to  present 
a  handful  of  fruit  which  in  her  station  was  a 
munificent  gift,  and  who  was  satisfied  and 
grateful  with  our  sincere  appreciation.  She  has 
sisters  in  graciousness  over  all  the  world,  but 
they  are  rare  and  widely  scattered,  like  the 
Akawai  Indian  squaw  who  gave  me  her  last 
cassava,  like  the  wrinkled  Japanese  crone  who 
persuaded  her  son  to  become  one  of  my  best 
servants,  like  the  wife  of  the  headman  of  an 
isolated  village  in  Yunnan,  who  from  among 
her  sodden,  beastlike  neighbors  came  forth  and 
offered  fowls  and  vegetables  with  a  courteous 
spirit  worthy  of  any  station  in  life. 

ST.  LUCIA,  A  STUDY  IN  CONTRASTS. — Each 
time  I  have  visited  Castries  it  has  seemed  more 
somber  and  less  pleasant.  It  is  colorless  be- 
cause it  is  full  of  coal  and  no  change  of  weather 
brings  amelioration.  When  the  sun  fills  the  air 
with  a  blinding  glare  and  palpitating  heat 
waves  (as  it  occasionally  does),  each  step  raises 
a  cloud  of  coal  dust,  and  when  the  tropical  rain 
falls  in  a  steady  downpour  (as  it  usually  does), 


ISLANDS  55 

the  whole  world  seems  covered  with  coal  mud,  as 
if  about  to  dissolve  into  some  carboniferous 
slime. 

This  is  an  important  military  and  coaling 
station,  which  perhaps  explains  much.  Mili- 
tary exigency  compelled  me  to  procure  a  special 
pass  from  the  Chief  of  Police  to  paddle  about 
its  dreary  streets,  and  which  strictly  forbade 
my  climbing  the  comparatively  clean  and  at- 
tractive mountains  beyond  these  streets.  As  a 
coaling  station  I  am  sure  of  its  success  and 
popularity,  for  the  coal  carriers  who  comprise 
most  of  the  natives,  have  apparently  no  time 
to  wash  between  steamers.  So  intensive  was 
the  grime  that  the  original  dark  hue  of  their 
skins  offered  no  camouflage  to  the  anthracite 
palimpsest  which  overlaid  it.  Such  huge  negro 
women,  such  muscles,  such  sense  of  power,  I 
had  never  before  sensed.  I  should  dislike,  were 
I  an  official  of  St.  Lucia,  to  take  any  decided 
stand  on  an  anti-feminine  platform.  So  satu- 
rated are  the  people  in  coal,  such  is  their  lack 
of  proper  perspective  of  this  material,  they  seem 
actually  to  be  unconscious  of  its  presence.  Re- 
turning on  board,  one  passes  the  Seaview  Hotel, 
about  which  coal  is  piled  to  a  much  greater 


56  JUNGLE  PEACE 

height  than  the  roof.  Such  abstraction  is 
worthy  of  mention  at  least. 

Amid  the  memory  of  all  the  dirt  and  damp, 
dull  sadness,  two  things  were  unforgetable,  as 
untouched  diamonds  glisten  in  their  matrix  of 
wet  blue  clay.  Amid  sodden  clothes,  unwashed 
hands  and  bestial  faces,  a  trayful  of  rainbow 
fishes  gleamed  opalwise — coral,  parrot  and 
angelfish,  all  awaiting  some  unsavory  purchaser. 
Then  came  the  little  French  negress,  selling 
fans,  out  of  the  ruck  of  sexless  bearers  of  coal. 
When  we  answered  her  appeal  with  a  "  Non 
merci"  her  face  lighted  up  at  the  courtesy  of 
the  words;  "Voyons!"  said  she,  " comme  c'est 
gracieusement  refuse! "  No  mortal  could  have 
resisted  buying  her  wares  after  such  delicate 
sentiment. 

About  five  in  the  afternoon  we  parted  from 
the  gritty  wharf  and  steamed  for  hour  after 
hour  along  the  shore.  We  forgot  the  poor, 
filthy,  ill-mannered  coal  carriers,  and  the  thought 
of  the  misery  and  squalor  of  the  town  passed 
with  its  vanishing,  still  clad  in  its  cloak  of  rain. 
As  the  natives  appeared  to  us  so  inferior  to 
those  of  the  other  islands,  so  by  some  law  of 
compensation  the  coast  was  revealed  correspond- 


ISLANDS  57 

ingly  beautiful.  At  four  bells  the  sun  sank  on 
the  side  away  from  the  island,  in  a  blaze  of 
yellow  and  orange  with  one  particular  cloud 
touching  the  water  line  with  flame  color,  as  if  a 
mighty  distant  volcano  had  just  reared  its  head 
above  the  sea,  still  in  the  throes  of  molten  erec- 
tion. On  the  opposite  side  were  passing  the 
dark  green  headlands  and  fiords  of  the  land, 
while  upward,  high  into  the  sky,  there  arose 
now  and  then  some  tremendous  cloud,  on  fire 
with  rich  rose  or  salmon  afterglow,  or  a  maze 
of  other  tints  defying  human  name  or  pigment. 
In  front  was  the  living  blue  water  dulled  by 
the  dimming  light  and  above  all  the  transparent 
blue  of  the  tropic  sky. 

Without  warning,  from  out  of  the  soft  folded 
edges  of  one  of  the  filmy  clouds,  crept  a  curved 
edge  of  cold  steel,  like  some  strange  kind  of 
floating  shell  coming  forth  from  its  cloud  of 
smoke,  and  a  moment  later  the  full  moon  was 
revealed,  unlike  any  other  color  note  in  this  mar- 
velous scene.  The  icy,  unchanging  moon  craters, 
the  more  plastic  island  mountains  fringed  by  the 
wind-shapen  trees,  the  still  more  shifting  waters 
and  the  evanescent  cloud  mist,  all  were  played 
upon  and  saturated  and  stained  by  colors  which 


58  JUNGLE  PEACE 

were  beyond  words,  almost  beyond  our  appre- 
ciation. Tiny  villages,  fronted  by  canoes  and 
swathed  in  feathery  cocoanut  fronds,  snuggled 
at  the  foot  of  great  volcanic  and  coral  cliffs. 

But  the  crowning  glory  was  reserved  for  the 
last,  when  we  surged  past  the  Trois  Pitons,  rear- 
ing their  majestic  heads  above  all  the  island, 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  sky. 
Even  the  moon  could  not  top  one,  and  after 
cutting  into  sharp,  silver  silhouette  every  leaf 
and  branch  of  a  moon-wide  swath  of  trees,  it 
buried  itself  behind  the  peak  and  framed  the 
whole  mountain. 

A  small  wandering  rain  storm  drifted  against 
the  tallest  piton  and  split  in  two,  one  half  going 
away  down  the  coast  and  the  rest  passing  close 
enough  to  us  to  shower  the  decks  with  drops. 
As  it  fell  astern,  it  spread  out  fanwise  and  in 
its  heart  developed  a  ghostly  lunar  rainbow— 
the  spectrum  cleansed  and  denuded  of  all  the 
garish  colors  of  day.  At  first  we  could  only 
sense  which  was  the  warm,  which  the  cold  side 
of  the  bow,  then  it  strengthened  and  the  red 
appeared  as  dull  copper  or  amber  buff,  and  the 
violet  as  a  deeper,  colder  blue,  cloud  hue.  All 
the  time,  even  when  the  rain  was  falling  heavi- 


ISLANDS  59 

est,  the  moon  shone  with  full  strength,  and  when 
at  last  we  veered  away  from  this  wonder  island, 
it  was  so  high  that  there  was  no  moonpath  on 
the  water,  but  only  a  living,  shifting  patch  of 
a  million  electric  wires,  which  wrote  untold 
myriad  messages  in  lunar  script  upon  the  little 
waves.  From  one  fraction  of  time  to  another, 
the  eye  could  detect  and  hold  in  memory  in- 
numerable strange  figures,  and  the  resemblance, 
if  it  be  not  sacrilege  to  make  any  simile,  was 
only  to  script  of  languages  long,  long  dead — 
the  cuneiform  of  Babylon  and  the  tendril  spirals 
of  Pali. 

Once  a  faint  light  appeared  upon  the  distant 
shore.  Our  steamer  spoke  in  a  short,  sharp 
blast  which  thrilled  us  with  its  unexpectedness 
and  the  signal  among  the  palms  was  quenched. 
From  the  great  things  of  the  cosmos,  from  bril- 
liant Venus,  and  from  the  north  star  low  in  the 
sky,  from  the  new  splendor  of  Formalhaut,  ris- 
ing ever  higher  in  the  south,  our  thoughts  were 
forced  back  to  the  littlenesses  of  the  world  war, 
whose  faint  influence  reached  even  thus  far  to 
break  the  thread  of  our  abstraction. 

BARBADOS,  IN  ECLIPSE  AND  IN  SUN. — The 
vagaries  of  a  naturalist  are  the  delight  of  the 


60  JUNGLE  PEACE 

uninitiated,  and  impress  simple  natives  more 
than  immoderate  tips  or  the  routine  excesses  of 
tourist  folk.  One's  scientific  eccentricities  may 
even  establish  a  small  measure  of  fame,  or  rather 
notoriety.  So  it  was  that  as  I  walked  up  the 
landing  stage  at  Bridgetown,  a  small  ebon  per- 
sonality pointed  finger  at  me  and  confided  to  his 
neighbor,  "  See  de  mon — de  tall  mon  da — he 
de  mon  who  chase  tree  lizards  in  de  cemetry! " 

"  Yes,  George,"  I  said,  "  I'm  de  mon  who 
chased  them  with  you  two  years  ago,  but  this 
time  we  shall  catch  them  as  well." 

"  Anyting  you  say  true,  Boss,  Fse  yo  boy." 

But  as  is  always  true  in  sport,  certainty  robs 
it  of  the  finest  element  of  excitement,  and  our 
successful  stalks  that  afternoon  with  grass  stem 
nooses  were  less  memorable  than  the  frantic  tree 
circlings  and  grave  hurdlings  of  two  years  be- 
fore. 

On  our  return  from  the  cemetery  a  breeze 
swept  up  from  the  sea,  the  palm  fronds  slithered 
against  one  another,  and  I  suddenly  caught  my- 
self shivering.  The  moment  I  became  conscious 
of  this  I  thought  of  fever  and  wondered  if  my 
life-long  immunity  had  come  to  an  end.  Then  I 
observed  old  hags  wrapping  themselves  up;  my 


ISLANDS  61 

eyes  suddenly  readjusted,  I  perceived  that  the 
glaring  sunlight  was  tempered ;  again  the  strange 
mid-day  breeze  arose  and  finally  I  realized  that 
I  was  witnessing  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  on  the 
island  of  Barbados.     The  natives  and  the  birds 
and  even  the  patient  little  donkeys  grew  rest- 
less, the  light  became  weaker  and  strange,  and 
until  the  end  of  the  eclipse  we  could  think  of 
nothing  else.    The  most  remarkable  part  to  me, 
were  the  reflections.     Looking  however  hastily 
and  obliquely  at  the  sun,  I  perceived  nothing 
but  a  blinding  glare,  but  walking  beneath  the 
shade   of  dense  tropical  foliage,   the  hosts   of 
specks  of  sunlight  sifting  through,  reflected  on 
the  white  limestone,  were  in  reality  thousands 
of  tiny  representations  of  the  sun's  disk  incised 
with  the  segment  of  the  silhouetted  moon,  but 
reversed,  just  like  the  image  through  the  aper- 
ture of  a  pinhole  camera.    I  suppose  it  is  a  very 
common   physical   phenomenon,   but   to   me   it 
was  a  surprising  thing  to  trace  the  curve  of 
the  eclipse  clearly  and  with  ease  in  the  sun- 
beams on  the  pavement  beneath  my  feet,  while 
my    retinas    refused    to    face    or    register    the 
original. 

Barbados  is  very  flat,  thoroughly  cultivated 


62  JUNGLE  PEACE 

and  said  to  be  the  most  densely  populated  bit 
of  land  in  the  world;  all  of  which  guide-book 
gossip  was  discouraging  to  a  naturalist.  But 
besides  the  cemetery  which  was  sanctuary  for 
the  jolly  little  lizards,  I  found  a  bit  of  unspoilt 
beach,  with  sand  as  white  and  fine  as  talcum 
powder,  where  dwelt  undisturbed  many  assem- 
blages of  small  folk.  There  were  land-crabs 
which  had  come  to  have  at  heart  more  affection 
for  the  vegetable  gardens  at  the  beach  top  than 
for  the  waters  of  their  forefathers.  They  had 
degenerated  into  mere  commuters  from  their 
holes  to  the  nearest  melon  patch.  The  lower 
part  of  the  beach  was  that  ever  changing  zone 
—that  altar  upon  which  each  tide  deposited 
some  offering  from  the  depths  of  the  sea.  This 
will  some  day  have  a  worthy  interpreter,  a  sym- 
pathetic recorder  and  commentator  who  will 
make  a  marvelous  volume  of  this  intermittent 
thread  of  the  earth's  surface,  pulsing,  chang- 
ing— now  showing  as  water,  now  as  land — but 
always  vital  with  exciting  happenings. 

I  sat  for  an  hour  on  the  upper  beach  and 
watched  the  little  native  folk,  autochthones  who 
for  innumerable  generations  had  been  so  loyal  to 
their  arenaceous  home  that  the  sheltering  mantle 


ISLANDS  63 

of  its  pale  hue  had  fallen  upon  their  wings 
and  bodies.  Here  were  tiny,  grayish-white 
crabs,  here  were  spiders,  which,  until  they 
moved,  were  not  spiders  but  sand.  And  when 
they  did  move,  recognition  usually  came  too 
late  to  some  fly,  which  had  trespassed  on  this 
littoral  hunting  ground.  Tiger-beetles  drifted 
about  like  sand-grain  wraiths,  whose  life  wan- 
derings lay  between  low  tide  and  the  highest 
dune;  veriest  ghosts  of  their  brilliant  green 
brethren  farther  inland.  Ashen  wasps  buzzed 
past,  with  compass  and  maps  in  their  heads, 
enabling  them  to  circle  about  once  or  twice, 
alight,  take  a  step  or  two  and,  kicking  down 
their  diminutive  front  door,  to  enter  the  slant- 
ing sandy  tube  which  for  them  fulfilled  all  the 
requirements  of  home. 

From  an  aeroplane,  Barbados  would  appear 
like  a  circular  expanse  of  patchwork,  or  a  wild 
futurist  painting  set  in  deepest  ultramarine;  a 
maze  of  rectangles  or  squares  of  sugar-cane, 
with  a  scattering  of  sweet  potatoes  and  sea 
island  cotton.  I  got  a  hint  of  this  when  I 
motored  to  the  highest  point  of  land,  and  then 
climbed  the  steeple  of  the  loftiest  church.  At 
my  feet  was  the  Atlantic  with  great  breakers, 


64  JUNGLE  PEACE 

reduced  by  distance  to  tiny  wavelets  twinkling 
among  the  black  boulders  and  feathery  palms 
which  were  scattered  along  shore.  For  more 
than  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  years  the 
church  had  stood  here,  and  not  to  be  outdone 
by  the  strangeness  of  the  little  beach  people, 
the  graveyard  boasted  the  remains  of  a  de- 
scendant of  a  Greek  Emperor,  who  long  ago 
had  been  warden. 

But  again  our  steamer  summoned  us  and  we 
left  the  dusky  natives  with  their  weird  legends 
and  the  tiny  island  which  they  love,  and  were 
rowed  steadily  out  beyond  the  two  miles  of 
shallow  coast. 

When  we  steamed  away  from  shore  that 
night,  no  lights  except  those  of  the  dining  saloon 
were  allowed.  Yet  the  path  of  the  vessel  made 
a  mockery  of  this  concealment.  The  world  did 
not  exist  a  hundred  feet  away  from  the  ship 
and  yet  there  was  no  mist  or  fog.  The  out- 
ward curve  of  the  water  from  the  bow  was  a 
long  slender  scimitar  of  phosphorescence,  and 
from  its  cutting  edge  and  tip  flashed  bits  of 
flame  and  brilliant  steely  sparks,  apparently 
suspended  above  the  jet-black  water.  Along- 
side was  a  steady  ribbon  of  dull  green  lumi- 


ISLANDS  65 

nescence,  while,  rolling  and  drifting  along 
through  this  path  of  light  came  now  and  then 
great  balls  of  clear,  pure  fire  touched  with 
emerald  flames,  some  huge  jelly  or  fish,  or  sar- 
gasso weed  incrusted  with  noctiluca.  Every- 
where throughout  the  narrow  zone  of  visibility 
were  flickering  constellations,  suns  and  planets 
of  momentary  life,  dying  within  the  second  in 
which  they  flashed  into  sight.  Once  Orion  left 
a  distinct  memory  on  the  retina — instantly  to 
vanish  forever.  Perhaps  to  some  unimaginably 
distant  and  unknown  god,  our  world  system 
may  appear  as  fleeting.  To  my  eyes  it  seemed 
as  if  I  looked  at  the  reflections  of  constella- 
tions which  no  longer  swung  across  the  heavens 
— shadows  of  shadows. 

Then    four    bells    struck — silveryly — and    I 
knew  that  time  still  existed. 


IV 
THE  POMEROON  TRAIL 

RAM  NAEINE  gave  a  party.  It  was  already 
a  thing  of  three  months  past,  and  it  had  been 
an  extremely  small  party,  and  Ram  Narine  was 
only  a  very  unimportant  coolie  on  the  planta- 
tion of  the  Golden  Fleece.  But,  like  many 
things  small  in  themselves,  this  party  had  far- 
flung  effects,  and  finally  certain  of  these  reached 
out  and  touched  me.  So  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned the  party  was  a  blessing.  Because  of  it 
I  was  to  travel  the  Pomeroon  Trail.  But  it 
befell  otherwise  with  Ram  Narine. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  small  party.  Only 
two  friends  had  been  invited,  and  Ram  and  his 
companions  had  made  very  merry  over  a  cooked 
cock-fowl  and  two  bottles  of  rum.  In  the  course 
of  the  night  there  was  a  fracas,  and  the  face 
of  one  of  Ram's  friends  had  been  somewhat  dis- 
figured, with  a  thick  club  and  a  bit  of  rock. 
He  spent  two  months  in  the  hospital,  and 

66 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  67 

eventually  recovered.  His  injuries  did  not  af- 
fect his  speech,  but,  coolie-like,  he  would  give 
little  information  as  to  his  assailant. 

And  now  the  majesty  of  the  law  was  about 
to  inquire  into  this  matter  of  Ram's  party,  and 
to  sift  to  the  uttermost  the  mystery  which  con- 
cerned the  cooked  cock-fowl  and  the  rum,  and 
the  possibilities  for  evil  which  accrued  to  the 
sinister  club  and  the  bit  of  rock.  I  was  invited 
to  go,  with  my  friends  the  Lawyer  and  the 
Judge,  and  our  route  lay  from  Georgetown 
westward,  athwart  two  mighty  Guiana  rivers. 

My  mission  to  British  Guiana  was  to  find 
some  suitable  place  to  establish  a  Tropical  Re- 
search Station,  where  three  of  us,  a  Wasp  Man, 
an  Embryo  Man,  and  a  Bird  Man,  all  Ameri- 
cans, all  enthusiastic,  might  learn  at  first-hand 
of  the  ways  and  lives  of  the  wilderness  creatures. 
After  seven  years  of  travel  and  bird-study  in 
far  distant  countries,  I  had  turned  again  to 
Guiana,  the  memory  of  whose  jungles  had  never 
left  me.  In  New  York  I  had  persuaded  the 
powers  of  the  Zoological  Society  that  here  lay 
a  new,  a  worthy  field  of  endeavor,  hidden 
among  the  maze  of  water-trails,  deep  in  the 
heart  of  the  forests.  For  these  were  forests 


68  JUNGLE  PEACE 

whose  treasury  of  bird  and  beast  and  insect 
secrets  had  been  only  skimmed  by  collectors. 
The  spoils  had  been  carried  to  northern  mu- 
seums, where  they  were  made  available  for 
human  conversation  and  writing  by  the  con- 
ferring of  names  by  twentieth-century  Adams. 
We  had  learned  much  besides  from  these  speci- 
mens, and  they  had  delighted  the  hearts  of 
multitudes  who  would  never  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  hear  the  evening  cadence  of  the  six- 
o'clock  bee  or  the  morning  chorus  of  the  howling 
monkeys. 

But  just  as  a  single  photograph  reveals  little 
of  the  inception,  movement  and  denouement  of 
an  entire  moving-picture  reel,  so  an  isolated 
dead  bird  can  present  only  the  static  condition 
of  the  plumage,  molt,  and  dimensions  at  the 
instant  before  death.  I  am  no  nature  senti- 
mentalist, and  in  spite  of  moments  of  weakness, 
I  will  without  hesitation  shoot  a  bird  as  she 
sits  upon  her  eggs,  if  I  can  thereby  acquire 
desired  information.  But  whenever  possible,  I 
prefer,  for  my  own  sake  as  well  as  hers,  to  pro- 
long my  observations,  and  thus  acquire  merit  in 
the  eyes  of  my  fellow  scientists  and  of  Buddha. 

I  hoped  the  Pomeroon  might  prove  such  a 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  69 

desirable  region,  and  fulfil  my  requirements  to 
the  extent  that  I  might  call  it  home  for  a  sea- 
son. So  I  accepted  the  invitation  with  a  double 
pleasure,  for  I  already  knew  what  excellent 
company  were  friends  Lawyer  and  Judge.  As 
a  site  for  my  researches  the  Pomeroon  failed; 
as  an  experience  filled  to  the  brim  with  interest 
and  enjoyment,  my  visit  left  nothing  to  be 
desired. 

Besides,  I  met  Ram. 

The  big  yellow  kiskadees  woke  me  at  day- 
break; my  bedroom  wren  sang  his  heart  out  as 
I  splashed  in  my  shower;  and  before  breakfast 
was  over  I  heard  the  honking  of  my  host's  car. 
We  glided  over  the  rich  red  streets  in  the  cool 
of  early  morning,  past  the  thronged  and  already 
odoriferous  market,  and  on  to  the  tiny  river 
ferry. 

This  was  on  Monday,  but  Ram  Narine  was 
to  have  yet  another  day  of  grace,  by  a  twist 
in  the  nexus  of  circumstance  which  envelops 
all  of  us.  The  Lawyer's  orderly  had  failed  to 
notify  his  cabman  that  the  Georgetown  steamer 
left  at  six-fifty  instead  of  seven.  So  when  we 
finally  left  the  stelling,  with  a  host  of  twitter- 
ing martins  about  us,  it  was  with  sorrowful 


70  JUNGLE  PEACE 

faces.  Not  only  were  the  master's  wig  and 
gown  missing,  besides  other  articless  less  neces- 
sary from  a  legal  point  of  view,  but  the  ham  for 
luncheon  was  lacking.  The  higher  law  of  com- 
pensation now  became  active,  and  the  day  of 
postponement  gave  me  the  sight  of  the  Pome- 
roon  Trail.  This  delay  solved  the  matter  of  the 
wig  and  gown,  and  the  ham  was  replaced  by  a 
curry  equal  to  a  Calcutta  cook's  best.  This  was 
served  in  the  Colony  House  at  Suddy  Village, 
where  one  ate  and  slept  in  full  enjoyment  of 
the  cool  tradewind  which  blew  in  from  the  clear 
stretch  of  the  Atlantic.  And  here  one  sat  and 
read  or  listened  to  the  droning  of  the  witnesses 
in  the  petty  cases  held  by  the  local  magistrate 
in  the  courtroom  below  stairs. 

I  chose  to  do  none  of  these  things,  but  walked 
to  the  sandy  beach  and  along  it  in  the  direction 
of  the  distant  Spanish  Main.  It  was  a  barren 
beach,  judged  by  the  salvage  of  most  beaches; 
few  shells,  little  seaweed,  and  the  white  sand 
alternating  with  stretches  of  brown  mud.  I 
walked  until  I  came  to  a  promontory  and,  amid 
splashing  muddy  waves,  climbed  out  and 
perched  where  I  ever  love  to  be — on  the  outer- 
most isolated  pile  of  an  old  wharf.  Scores  of 


A  Guiana  Shore 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  71 

years  must  have  passed  since  it  was  in  use,  and 
I  tried  to  imagine  what  things  had  come  and 
gone  over  it.  Those  were  the  days  of  the  great 
Dutch  sugar-plantations,  when  plantations  were 
like  small  kingdoms,  with  crowds  of  slaves,  and 
when  the  rich  amber  crystals  resembled  gold- 
dust  in  more  than  appearance.  What  bales  of 
wondrous  Dutch  lace  and  furniture  and  goodies 
were  unloaded  from  the  old  high-pooped  sailing 
ships,  and  what  frills  and  flounces  fluttered  in 
this  same  tradewind,  what  time  the  master's 
daughter  set  forth  upon  her  first  visit  to  the 
Netherlands!  Now,  a  few  rotted  piles  and  rows 
of  precise,  flat  Dutch  bricks  along  the  foreshore 
were  all  that  was  left  of  such  memories.  In- 
land, the  wattled  huts  of  the  negroes  had  out- 
lasted the  great  manor-houses. 

Out  at  sea  there  was  no  change.  The  same 
muddy  waves  rose  but  never  broke;  the  same 
tidal  current  swirled  and  eddied  downstream. 
And  now  my  mind  became  centered  on  passing 
debris,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  realized  that, 
whatever  changes  had  ruffled  or  passed  over 
this  coastal  region  of  Guiana,  the  source  of  the 
muddy  waters  up  country  was  as  untouched  now 
as  when  Amerigo  Vespucci  sailed  along  this 


72  JUNGLE  PEACE 

coast  four  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago.  I 
forgot  the  shore  with  its  memories  and  its  pres- 
ent lush  growth  and  heat.  For  in  the  eddies  of 
the  wharf  piles  swirled  strange  things  from  the 
inland  hush.  First  a  patch  of  coarse  grass, 
sailing  out  to  sea,  upright  and  slowly  circling. 
On  the  stems  I  could  distinguish  unwilling 
travelers — crickets,  spiders,  and  lesser  wingless 
fry.  Half -hollow  logs  drifted  past,  some  deep 
and  water-soaked,  others  floating  high,  with  their 
upper  parts  quite  dry.  On  such  a  one  I  saw  a 
small  green  snake  coiled  as  high  as  possible,  and, 
serpent-like,  waiting  quietly  for  what  fate 
should  bring. 

And  now  came  an  extraordinary  sight — an- 
other serpent,  a  huge  one,  a  great  water-con- 
strictor long  dead,  entangled  in  some  brush,  half 
caught  firm  and  half  dangling  in  the  water. 
Attending  were  two  vultures,  ravenous  and 
ready  to  risk  anything  for  a  meal.  And  they 
were  risking  a  good  deal,  for  each  time  they 
alighted,  the  brush  and  snake  began  to  sink  and 
allowed  them  time  for  only  one  or  two  frantic 
pecks  before  they  were  in  water  up  to  their 
bodies.  They  then  had  laboriously  to  take  to 
flight,  beating  the  water  for  the  first  few 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  73 

strokes.  For  several  minutes  one  loop  of  the 
snake  became  entangled  about  a  sunken  pile, 
and  now  the  scavengers  boldly  perched  in  the 
shallow  water  and  fairly  ducked  their  heads  at 
each  beakful.  Next  came  a  white  ants'  nest  on 
a  lichened  trunk,  with  a  multitude  of  the  owners 
rushing  frantically  about,  scores  of  them  over- 
running the  confines  of  their  small  cosmos,  to 
the  great  profit  and  delectation  of  a  school  of 
little  fish  which  swam  in  the  wake. 

Most  pitiful  of  all  was  a  tiny  opossum,  with 
a  single  young  one  clinging  tightly  about  her 
neck,  which  approached  as  I  was  about  to  leave. 
She  was  marooned  on  a  hollow  log  which  re- 
volved in  an  arc  while  it  drifted.  As  it  turned, 
the  little  mother  climbed,  creeping  first  upward, 
then  turning  and  clambering  back,  keeping  thus 
ever  on  the  summit.  The  tail  of  the  baby  was 
coiled  about  her  mouth,  and  he  was  clinging  with 
all  his  strength.  It  was  a  brave  fight  and  well 
deserved  success.  No  boat  was  in  sight,  so  I 
could  not  hesitate,  but,  pulling  off  my  shoes,  I 
waded  out  as  far  as  I  could.  At  first  I  thought 
I  must  miss  it,  for  I  could  not  go  in  to  my  neck 
even  for  an  opossum.  But  the  wind  helped ;  one 
or  two  heavy  waves  lapped  conveniently  against 


74  JUNGLE  PEACE 

the  sodden  bark,  and  I  succeeded  in  seizing  the 
stub.  As  I  reached  for  the  little  creature,  the 
young  opossum  gave  up  and  slipped  into  the 
water,  and  a  ripple  showed  where  a  watchful 
fish  had  snapped  it  up.  But  I  got  hold  of  the 
mother's  tail,  and  despite  a  weak  hiss  and  a 
perfunctory  showing  of  teeth,  I  lifted  her  and 
waded  ashore.  The  last  view  I  had,  showed 
her  crawling  feebly  but  steadily  along  a  branch 
into  the  heart  of  a  dense  thicket. 

I  climbed  back  to  my  outpost  and  dried  my 
clothes  in  the  sun,  meditating  on  the  curious 
psychology  of  a  human  which  wanted  opossums 
and  would  unhesitatingly  sacrifice  a  score  of 
opossums  for  a  real  scientific  need,  and  yet 
would  put  itself  to  much  discomfort  to  save  a 
single  one  from  going  out  to  sea.  Sentimental 
weakness  is  an  inexplicable  thing,  and  I  finally 
made  up  my  mind — as  I  always  do — not  to  yield 
again  to  its  promptings.  In  fact,  I  half  turned 
to  go  in  search  of  my  specimen — and  then 
didn't. 

The  tide  had  reached  full  ebb  and  the  sun 
was  low  when  I  started  back,  and  now  I  found 
a  new  beach  many  feet  farther  out  and  down. 
Still  no  shells,  but  a  wonderful  assortment  of 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  75 

substitutes  in  the  shape  of  a  host  of  nuts  and 
seeds — flotsam  and  jetsam  from  far  up-river, 
like  the  snake  and  ants  and  opossum.  There 
were  spheres  and  kidney-shapes,  half -circles  and 
crescents,  heads  of  little  old  men  and  pods  like 
scimitars,  and  others  like  boomerangs.  Some 
were  dull,  others  polished  and  varnished.  They 
were  red  and  green,  brown  and  pink  and  mauve, 
and  a  few  gorgeous  ones  shaded  from  salmon 
into  the  most  brilliant  orange  and  yellow.  Most 
were  as  lifeless  in  appearance  as  empty  shells, 
but  there  were  many  with  the  tiny  root  and 
natal  leaves  sprouting  hopefully  through  a  chink. 
And  just  to  be  consistent,  I  chose  one  out  of 
the  many  thousands  piled  in  windrows  and  car- 
ried it  high  up  on  the  shore,  where  I  carefully 
planted  it.  It  was  a  nut  unknown  to  me  at  the 
time,  but  later  I  knew  that  I  had  started  one 
of  the  greatest  of  the  jungle  trees  on  its  way 
to  success. 

Ahead  of  me  two  boys  dashed  out  of  the 
underbrush  and  rushed  into  the  waves.  After 
swimming  a  few  strokes  they  reached  a  great 
log  and,  heading  it  inward,  swam  it  ashore  and 
tied  a  rope  to  it.  Here  was  a  profession  which 
appealed  to  me,  and  which  indeed  I  had  already 


76  JUNGLE  PEACE 

entered  upon,  although  the  copper-skinned 
coolie  boys  did  not  recognize  me  as  one  of  their 
guild.  And  small  blame  to  them,  for  I  was  an 
idler  who  had  labored  and  salvaged  a  perfectly 
good  opossum  and  the  scion  of  a  mighty  mora 
for  naught.  Here  I  was,  no  richer  for  my  walk, 
and  with  only  damp  clothing  to  show  for  my 
pains.  Yet  we  grinned  cheerfully  at  each  other 
as  I  went  by,  and  they  patted  their  log  affec- 
tionately as  they  moored  it  fast. 

Dusk  was  not  far  away  when  I  reached  Col- 
ony House  and  the  Lawyer  and  I  fared  forth 
to  seek  a  suit  of  pajamas.  For  the  orderly 
had  with  him  both  luxuries  and  necessities,  and 
so  we  went  shopping.  I  may  say  at  once  that 
we  failed  completely  in  our  quest,  but,  as  is  usu- 
ally the  case  in  the  tropics,  we  were  abundantly 
compensated. 

We  visited  emporiums  to  the  number  of 
three, — all  that  the  village  could  boast, — and 
the  stare  of  the  three  Chinawomen  was  uni- 
formly blank.  They  could  be  made  in  three 
days,  or  one  could  send  to  Georgetown  for  most 
excellent  ones;  we  could  not  make  clear  the 
pressure  of  our  need.  The  Lawyer  grumbled, 
but  the  afterglow  was  too  marvelous  for  any- 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  77 

thing  to  matter  for  long.  Indeed,  things- 
wonderful  and  strange,  pathetic  and  amusing 
—were  so  numerous  and  so  needful  of  all  our 
faculties,  that  at  one  time  my  mind  blurred 
like  an  over-talked  telephone  wire.  My  enthu- 
siasm bubbled  over  and  the  good-natured  Law- 
yer enjoyed  them  as  I  did. 

Here  were  two  among  the  many.  There  was 
the  matter  of  the  poor  coolie  woman  who  had 
injured  a  leg  and  who,  misunderstanding  some 
hastily  given  order,  had  left  the  hospital  and 
was  attempting  to  creep  homeward,  using  hands 
and  arms  for  crutches.  Her  husband  was  very 
small  and  very  patient  and  he  had  not  the 
strength  to  help  her,  although  now  and  then  he 
made  an  awkward  attempt.  While  we  sent  for 
help,  I  asked  questions,  and  in  half -broken  Eng- 
lish I  found  that  they  lived  six  miles  away.  I 
had  passed  them  early  in  the  afternoon  on  the 
way  to  the  beach,  and  in  the  intervening  four 
hours  they  had  progressed  just  about  two  hun- 
dred feet!  This  was  patience  with  a  vengeance, 
and  worthy  of  compute.  So,  astronomer-like,  I 
took  notebook  and  pencil  and  began  to  estimate 
the  time  of  their  orbit.  It  was  not  an  easy  mat- 
ter, for  mathematics  is  to  me  the  least  of  earth's 


78  JUNGLE  PEACE 

mercies — and  besides,  I  was  not  certain  how 
many  feet  there  were  in  a  mile.  By  saying  it 
over  rapidly  I  at  last  convinced  myself  that  it 
was  "  fivethousantwohunderaneighty." 

I  gasped  when  I  finished,  and  repeated  my 
questions.  And  again  came  the  answers:  "  Yes, 
sahib,  we  go  home.  Yes,  sahib,  we  live  Aurora. 
Yes,  sahib,  we  go  like  this  ver'  slow.  No,  sahib, 
have  no  food."  And  as  he  said  the  last  sentence, 
a  few  drops  of  rain  fell  and  he  instantly  spread 
his  body-cloth  out  and  held  it  over  the  sick 
woman.  My  mind  instinctively  went  back  to  the 
mother  opossum  and  her  young.  The  coolie 
woman  ceaselessly  murmured  in  her  native 
tongue  and  looked  steadily  ahead  with  patient 
eyes.  Always  she  fumbled  with  her  dusty 
fingers  for  a  spot  to  grip  and  shuffle  ahead  a 
few  inches. 

Two  hundred  feet  in  four  hours!  And  six 
full  miles  to  the  coolie  quarters!  This  was  on 
the  fourteenth  of  a  month.  If  my  calculation 
was  correct  they  would  reach  home  on  the  tenth 
of  the  following  month,  in  three  weeks  and  five 
days.  Truly  oriental,  if  not,  indeed,  elemental 
patience!  This  planet-like  journey  was  deviated 
from  its  path  by  a  hospital  stretcher  and  a  swift 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  79 

return  over  the  four-hour  course,  although  this 
cosmic  disturbance  aroused  comment  from 
neither  the  man  nor  his  wife.  I  checked  off  an- 
other helpless  being  salvaged  from  the  stream 
of  ignorance. 

From  serio-comic  tragedy  the  village  street  led 
us  to  pure  comedy.  At  the  roadside  we  discov- 
ered a  tiny  white  flag,  and  beneath  it  a  bit  of 
worn  and  grimy  cloth  stretched  between  a  frame 
of  wood.  This  was  a  poster  announcing  the 
impending  performance  of  one  "Profesor  Ra- 
bintrapore,"  who,  the  painfully  inked-in  printing 
went  on  to  relate,  "  craled  from  ankoffs  "  and 
"  esskaped  from  cofens,"  and,  besides,  dealt 
with  "  spirits  INvisibal."  The  professor's  sys- 
tem of  spelling  would  have  warmed  the  heart  of 
our  modern  schoolteachers,  but  his  seances  did 
not  seem  to  be  tempting  many  shekels  from  the 
pockets  of  coolie  spiritualists. 

After  tea  at  the  Colony  House,  I  leaned 
out  of  my  window  and  watched  the  moonlight 
gather  power  and  slowly  usurp  the  place  of 
the  sun.  Then,  like  the  succession  of  light, 
there  followed  sound:  the  last  sleepy  twitter 
came  from  the  martin's  nest  under  the  eaves, 
and  was  sustained  and  deepened  until  it  changed 


80  JUNGLE  PEACE 

to  the  reverberating  bass  rumble  of  a  great 
turnal  frog. 

In  the  moonlight  the  road  lay  white,  though 
I  knew  in  the  warm  sun  it  was  a  rich,  foxy 
red.  It  vanished  beyond  some  huts,  and  I  won- 
dered whither  it  went  and  remembered  that  to- 
morrow I  should  learn  for  certain.  Then  a 
ghostly  goatsucker  called  eerily,  '  Who-are- 
you? "  and  the  next  sound  for  me  was  the 
summons  to  early  coffee. 

During  the  morning  the  missing  orderly  ar- 
rived, and  with  him  the  wig  and  gown  and 
the  ham.  And  now  the  matter  of  Ram  Narine 
became  pressing,  and  my  friends  Lawyer  and 
Judge  became  less  human  and  increasingly 
legal.  I  attended  court  and  was  accorded  the 
honor  of  a  chair  between  a  bewigged  official 
and  the  Inspector  of  Police,  the  latter  resplen- 
dent in  starched  duck,  gold  lace,  spiked  helmet, 
and  sword.  Being  a  mere  scientist  and  wholly 
ignorant  of  legal  matters,  I  am  quite  like  my 
fellow  human  beings  and  associate  fear  with 
my  ignorance.  So  under  the  curious  eyes  of  the 
black  and  Indian  witnesses  and  other  attendants, 
I  had  all  the  weaving  little  spinal  thrills  which 
one  must  experience  on  being,  or  being  about  to 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  81 

be,  a  criminal.  There  was  I  betwixt  law  and 
police,  and  quite  ready  to  believe  that  I  had 
committed  something  or  other,  with  malicious 
or  related  intent. 

But  my  thoughts  were  soon  given  another 
turn  as  a  loud  rapping  summoned  us  to  our 
feet  at  the  entrance  of  the  Judge.  A  few  min- 
utes before,  we  had  been  joking  together  and 
companionably  messing  our  fingers  with  oranges 
upstairs.  Now  I  gazed  in  awe  at  this  impassive 
being  in  wig  and  scarlet  vestments,  whose  mere 
entrance  had  brought  us  to  our  feet  as  if  by 
religious  or  royal  command.  I  shuddered  at  my 
memory  of  intimacies,  and  felt  quite  certain  we 
could  never  again  sit  down  at  table  as  equals. 
When  we  had  resumed  our  seats  there  was  a 
stir  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  courtroom,  and 
a  half-dozen  gigantic  black  policemen  entered, 
and  with  them  a  little,  calm-faced,  womanly 
man — Ram  Narine,  the  wielder  of  the  club  and 
the  rock.  He  ascended  to  the  fenced-in  prison- 
ers' dock,  looking,  amid  all  his  superstrong  bar- 
riers to  freedom,  ridiculously  small  and  inoffen- 
sive, like  a  very  small  puppy  tethered  with  a 
cable.  He  gazed  quietly  down  at  the  various 
ominous  exhibits.  A  and  B  were  the  club  and 


82  JUNGLE  PEACE 

the  rock,  with  their  glued  labels  reminding  one 
of  museum  specimens.  Exhibit  C  was  a  rum- 
bottle — an  empty  one.  Perhaps  if  it  had  been 
full,  some  flash  of  interest  might  have  crossed 
Ram's  face.  Then  weighty  legal  phrases  and 
accusations  passed,  and  the  Judge's  voice  was 
raised,  sonorous  and  impressive,  and  I  felt  that 
nothing  but  memory  remained  of  that  jovial 
personality  which  I  had  known  so  recently. 

The  proceeding  which  impressed  me  most  was 
the  uncanny  skill  of  the  official  interpreter,  who 
seemed  almost  to  anticipate  the  words  of  the 
Judge  or  the  Clerk.  And,  too,  he  gestured  and 
shook  his  finger  at  the  prisoner  at  the  appro- 
priate places,  though  he  had  his  back  fairly  to 
the  Judge  and  so  could  have  had  none  but 
Verbal  clues.  Ram  Narine,  it  seems,  was  in- 
dicted on  four  counts,  among  which  I  could  dis- 
tinguish only  that  he  was  accused  of  maltreating 
his  friend  with  intent  to  kill,  and  this  in  soft 
Hindustani  tones  he  gently  denied.  Finally, 
that  he  had  at  least  done  the  damage  to  his 
friend's  face  and  very  nearly  killed  him.  To 
this  he  acquiesced,  and  the  Court,  as  the  Judge 
called  himself,  would  now  proceed  to  pass  sen- 
tence. I  was  relieved  to  hear  him  thus  re- 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  83 

name  himself,  for  it  seemed  as  if  he  too  realized 
his  changed  personality. 

And  now  the  flow  of  legal  reiteration  and 
alliteration  ceased  for  a  moment,  and  I  listened 
to  the  buzzing  of  a  mardbunta  wasp  and  the 
warbling  of  a  blue  tanager  among  the  fronds. 
For  a  moment,  in  the  warm  sunshine,  the  hot, 
woolly  wigs  and  the  starched  coats  and  the 
shining  scabbard  seemed  out  of  place.  One  felt 
all  the  discomfort  of  the  tight  boots  and  stiff 
collars,  and  a  glance  at  Ram  Narine  showed 
his  slim  figure  clothed  in  the  looped,  soft  linen 
of  his  race.  And  he  seemed  the  only  wholly 
normal  tropic  thing  there — he  and  the  wasp  and 
the  tanager  and  the  drooping  motionless  palm 
shading  the  window.  In  comparison,  all  else 
seemed  almost  Arctic,  unacclimatized. 

Then  the  deep  tones  of  the  Court  rose,  and 
in  more  simple  verbiage, — almost  crude  and 
quite  unlegal  to  my  ears, — we  heard  Ram  Na- 
rine sentenced  to  twelve  months'  hard  labor. 
And  the  final  words  of  the  interpreter  left 
Ram's  face  as  unconcerned  and  emotionless  as 
that  of  the  Buddhas  in  the  Burmese  pagodas. 
And  the  simile  recurred  again  and  again  after 
it  was  all  over.  So  Ram  and  I  parted,  to  meet 


84  JUNGLE  PEACE 

again  a  few  weeks  later  under  strangely  dif- 
ferent conditions. 

Robes  and  wigs  and  other  legal  properties 
were  thrown  aside,  and  once  more  we  were  all 
genial  friends  in  the  little  automobile,  with  no 
trace  of  the  terribly  formal  side  of  justice  and 
right.  The  red  Pomeroon  road  slipped  past, 
and  I,  for  one,  wished  for  a  dozen  eyes  and  a 
score  of  memories  to  record  the  unrolling  of 
that  road.  It  was  baffling  in  its  interest. 

The  first  ten  or  twenty  miles  consisted  of 
huge  sugar  estates,  recently  awakened  to  fever- 
ish activity  by  the  war  prices  of  this  commodity. 
Golden  Fleece,  Taymouth  Manor,  Capoey, 
More  Success,  Anna  Regina,  Hampton  Court 
—all  old  names  long  famous  in  the  history  of 
the  colony.  In  many  other  districts  the  Dutch 
have  left  not  only  a  heritage  of  names,  such 
as  Vreeden-Hoop  and  Kyk-over-al,  but  the 
memory  of  a  grim  sense  of  humor,  as  in  the 
case  of  three  estates  lying  one  beyond  the  other, 
which  the  owners  named  in  turn,  Trouble, 
More  Trouble,  and  Most  Trouble.  Unlike  our 
southern  plantations,  the  workers'  quarters  are 
along  the  road,  with  the  big  house  of  the  man- 
ager well  back,  often  quite  concealed.  The 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  85 

coolies  usually  live  in  long,  communal,  barrack- 
like  structures,  the  negroes  in  half -open  huts. 

This  first  part  of  the  Pomeroon  road  was  one 
long  ribbon  of  variegated  color:  Hundreds  of 
tiny  huts,  with  picturesque  groups  of  coolies 
and  negroes  and  a  smaller  number  of  Chinese, 
all  the  huts  dilapidated,  some  leaning  over, 
others  so  perforated  that  they  looked  like  the 
ruins  of  European  farmhouses  after  being 
shelled.  Patched,  propped  up,  tied  together, 
it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  they  were  habi- 
table. All  were  embowered  in  masses  of  color 
and  shadowed  by  the  graceful  curves  of  cocoa- 
nut  palms  and  bananas.  The  sheets  of  bou- 
gainvillea  blossoms,  of  yellow  allamandas,  and 
the  white  frangipani  temple  flowers  of  the 
East,  brought  joy  to  the  eye  and  the  nostril; 
the  scarlet  lilies  growing  rank  as  weeds — all 
these  emphasized  the  ruinous  character  of  the 
huts.  Along  the  front  ran  a  trench,  doubling 
all  the  glorious  color  in  reflection,  except  where 
it  was  filled  with  lotus  blossoms  and  Victoria 
regia. 

As  we  passed  swiftly,  the  natives  rushed  out 
on  the  shaky  board-and-log  bridges,  staring  in 
wonder,  the  women  with  babies  astride  of  their 


86  JUNGLE  PEACE 

hips,  the  copper-skinned  children  now  and  then 
tumbling  into  the  water  in  their  excitement. 
The  yellows  and  reds  and  greens  of  the  coolies 
added  another  color-note.  Everything  seemed  a 
riot  of  brilliant  pigment.  Against  the  blue  sky 
great  orange-headed  vultures  balanced  and  vol- 
planed; yellow-gold  kiskadees  shrieked  bla- 
tantly, and,  silhouetted  against  the  green  fronds, 
smote  both  eye  and  ear. 

We  were  among  the  first  to  pass  the  road 
in  an  automobile.  Awkward,  big-wheeled  carts, 
drawn  by  the  tiniest  of  burros  and  heaped  high 
with  wood,  were  the  only  other  vehicles.  For 
the  rest,  the  road  was  a  Noah's  Ark,  studded 
with  all  the  domestic  animals  of  the  world: 
pigs,  calves,  horses,  burros,  sheep,  turkeys, 
chickens,  and  hordes  of  gaunt,  pariah  curs. 
Drive  as  carefully  as  we  might,  we  left  behind 
a  succession  of  defunct  dogs  and  fowls.  For  the 
other  species,  especially  those  of  respectable  size, 
we  slowed  down,  more  for  our  sake  than  theirs. 
Calves  were  the  least  intelligent,  and  would 
run  ahead  of  us,  gazing  fearfully  back,  first 
over  one,  then  the  other  shoulder,  until  from 
fatigue  they  leaped  into  the  wayside  ditch.  The 
natives  themselves  barely  moved  aside,  and  why 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  87 

we  did  not  topple  over  more  of  the  great  head- 
carried  loads  I  do  not  know.  We  left  behind 
us  a  world  of  scared  coolies  and  gaping  chil- 
dren. 

The  road  was  excellent,  but  it  twisted  and 
turned  bewilderingly.  It  was  always  the  same 
rich  red  hue — made  of  earth-clinker  burned 
under  sods.  Preparing  this  seemed  a  frequent 
occupation  of  the  natives,  and  the  wood  piles  on 
the  carts  melted  away  in  the  charcoal-like  fires 
of  these  subterranean  furnaces.  Here  and  there 
tiny  red  flags  fluttered  from  tall  bamboo  poles, 
reminiscent  of  the  evil-spirit  flags  in  India  and 
Burma.  But  with  the  transportation  across  the 
sea  of  these  oriental  customs  certain  improve- 
ments had  entered  in, — adaptations  to  the  gods 
of  ill  of  this  new  world.  So  the  huts  in  course 
of  alteration,  and  the  new  ones  being  erected, 
were  guarded,  not  only  by  the  fluttering  and  the 
color,  but  by  a  weird  little  figure  of  a  dragon 
demon  himself  drawn  on  the  cloth,  a  quite  un- 
oriental  visualizing  of  the  dreaded  one. 

As  we  flew  along,  we  gradually  left  the  vil- 
lages of  huts  behind.  Single  thatched  houses 
were  separated  by  expanses  of  rice-fields,  green 
rectangles  framed  in  sepia  mud  walls,  picked 


88  JUNGLE  PEACE 

out  here  and  there  by  intensely  white  and  in- 
tensely Japanesque  egrets.  Great  black  mus- 
covy  ducks  spattered  up  from  amber  pools,  and 
tri-colored  herons  stood  like  detached  shadows 
of  birds,  mere  cardboard  figures,  so  attenuated 
that  they  appeared  to  exist  in  only  two  planes 
of  space. 

The  rice-fields  gave  place  to  pastures  and 
these  to  marshes;  thin  lines  of  grass  trisected 
the  red  road — the  first  hint  of  the  passing  of 
the  road  and  the  coming  of  the  trail.  Rough 
places  became  more  frequent.  Then  came  shrub, 
and  an  occasional  branch  whipped  our  faces. 
Black  cuckoos  or  old  witch-birds  flew  up  like 
disheveled  grackles;  cotton-birds  flashed  by, 
and  black-throated  orioles  glowed  among  the 
foliage.  Carrion  crows  and  laughing  falcons 
watched  us  from  nearby  perches,  and  our  chauf- 
feur went  into  second  gear. 

Now  and  then  some  strange  human  being 
passed, — man  or  woman,  we  could  hardly  tell 
which, — clad  in  rags  which  flapped  in  the  breeze, 
long  hair  waving,  leaning  unsteadily  on  a  staff, 
like  a  perambulating  scarecrow.  The  eyes,  fixed 
ahead,  were  fastened  on  things  other  than  those 
of  this  world,  so  detached  that  their  first  sight 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  89 

of  an  automobile  aroused  them  not  at  all.  The 
gulf  between  the  thoughts  of  these  creatures  and 
the  world  today  was  too  deep  to  be  bridged 
by  any  transient  curiosity  or  fear.  They 
trudged  onward  without  a  glance,  and  we 
steered  aside  to  let  them  pass. 

The  grass  between  the  ruts  now  brushed  the 
body  of  the  car;  even  the  wild  people  passed 
no  more,  and  the  huts  vanished  utterly.  Forest 
palms  appeared,  then  taller  brush,  and  trees  in 
the  distance.  Finally,  the  last  three  miles  be- 
came a  scar  through  the  heart  of  the  primeval 
jungle,  open  under  the  lofty  sky  of  foliage,  the 
great  buttresses  of  the  trunks  exposed  for  the 
first  time  to  the  full  glare  of  day.  The  trail 
was  raw  with  all  the  snags  and  concealed  roots 
with  which  the  jungle  likes  to  block  entrance 
to  its  privacy;  and,  rocking  and  pitching  like 
a  ship  in  the  waves,  we  drew  up  to  a  woodpile 
directly  in  our  path.  Standing  up  in  our  seats, 
we  could  see,  just  beyond  it,  the  dark  flood  of 
the  Pomeroon  surging  slowly  down  to  the  sea. 
Seven  years  ago  I  had  passed  this  way  en  route 
from  Morawhanna,  paddled  by  six  Indians. 
Maintenant  ce  n'est  qu'une  memoire. 

For  centuries  the  woodskins  of  the  Indians 


90  JUNGLE  PEACE 

had  passed  up  and  down  and  left  no  trace. 
Only  by  this  tidal  road  could  one  reach  the 
mouth  of  tributaries.  And  now  the  sacred  isola- 
tion of  this  great  tropical  river  was  forever 
gone.  The  tiny  scar  along  which  we  had 
bumped  marked  the  permanent  coming  of  man. 
And  his  grip  would  never  relax.  Already  ca- 
pillaries were  spreading  through  the  wilderness 
tissues.  Across  the  river  from  our  woodpile 
were  two  tiny  Portuguese  houses — those  petty 
pioneers  of  today  whose  forefathers  were  world- 
wide explorers.  Around  us,  scarcely  separable 
from  the  bush,  was  the  coffee  plantation  of  one 
Senor  Serrao.  He  and  his  mother  greeted  us, 
and  with  beaming  courtesy  we  were  led  to  their 
wattled  hut,  where  a  timid  sister  gave  us  grape- 
fruit. I  talked  with  him  of  his  work  and  of 
the  passing  of  the  animals  of  the  surrounding 
forest.  Tapir  were  still  common,  and  the  wild 
pigs  and  deer  waged  war  on  his  vegetables. 
Then  a  swirl  drew  our  eyes  to  the  brown  flood 
and  he  said,  "  Perai." 

And  this  was  the  end  of  the  tropical  trail 
which  had  started  out  as  a  road,  with  its  begin- 
ning, for  me,  in  the  matter  of  Ram  Narine. 
Along  its  route  we  had  passed  civilization  as 


THE  POMEROON  TRAIL  91 

men  know  it  here,  and  had  seen  it  gradually 
fray  out  into  single  aged  outcasts,  brooding  on 
thoughts  rooted  and  hidden  in  the  mystery  of 
the  Far  East.  From  the  water  and  the  jungle 
the  trail  had  vouchsafed  us  glimpses  and  whis- 
pers of  the  wild  creatures  of  this  great  conti- 
nent, of  the  web  of  whose  lives  we  hoped  to 
unravel  a  few  strands.  The  end  of  the  trail  was 
barred  with  the  closed  toll-gate  of  memory. 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS 

LINES  of  gray,  plunging  tropic  rain  slanted 
across  the  whole  world.  Outward-curving 
waves  of  red  mud  lost  themselves  in  the  steady 
downpour  beyond  the  guards  on  the  motor-car 
of  the  Inspector  of  Police.  It  is  surprising  to 
think  how  many  times  and  in  what  a  multitude 
of  places  I  have  been  indebted  to  inspectors  of 
police.  In  New  York  the  average  visitor  would 
never  think  of  meeting  that  official  except  under 
extraordinary  and  perhaps  compromising  cir- 
cumstances; but  in  tropical  British  possessions 
the  head  of  the  police  combines  with  his  requisite 
large  quantity  of  gold  lace  and  tact  a  delightful 
way  of  placing  visitors,  and  especially  those  of 
serious  scientific  intent,  under  considerable  obli- 
gation. So  my  present  Inspector  of  Police,  at 
an  official  banquet  the  preceding  evening,  had 
insisted  that  I  travel  along  the  seafront  of 

92 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  93 

Guiana — betwixt  muddy  salt  water  and  cane- 
fields — in  his  car.  But  an  inspector  of  police  is 
not  necessarily  a  weather  prophet,  and  now  the 
close-drawn  curtains  forbade  any  view,  so  it  was 
decided  that  I  tranship  to  the  single  daily  train. 

Three  times  I  had  to  pass  the  ticket-collector 
at  the  station  to  see  after  my  luggage,  and  three 
times  a  large  clover-leaf  was  punched  out  of 
my  exceedingly  small  bit  of  pasteboard.  A  can 
of  formaline  still  eluded  me,  but  I  looked  dubi- 
ously at  my  limp  trey  of  clubs.  Like  a  soggy 
gingersnap,  it  drooped  with  its  own  weight,  and 
the  chances  seemed  about  even  whether  another 
trip  past  the  hopelessly  conscientious  coolie  gate- 
man  would  find  me  with  a  totally  dismembered 
ticket  or  an  asymmetrical  four  of  clubs  of  lace- 
like  consistency.  I  forebore,  and  walking  to 
the  end  of  the  platform,  looked  out  at  a  long 
line  of  feathery  cocoanut  palms,  pasteled  by  the 
intervening  rain.  They  were  silhouetted  in  a 
station  aperture  of  corrugated  iron,  of  all  build- 
ing materials  the  most  hideous;  but  the  aper- 
ture was  of  that  most  graceful  of  all  shapes,  a 
Moorish  arch. 

Neither  my  color  nor  my  caste,  in  this  ultra- 
democratic  country,  forced  me  to  travel  first- 


94  JUNGLE  PEACE 

class,  but  that  necessary,  unwritten  distinction, 
felt  so  keenly  wherever  there  is  a  mingling  of 
race,  compelled  me  to  step  into  a  deserted  car 
upholstered  in  soiled  dusty  blue.  I  regretted 
that  I  must  "  save  my  face,"  as  a  Chinaman 
would  say,  and  not  sit  on  the  greasy  bare  boards 
of  the  second-class  coach,  where  fascinating 
coolie  persons  sat,  squatting  on  the  seats  with 
their  heads  mixed  up  with  their  knees.  Desire, 
prompted  by  interest  and  curiosity,  drew  me  to 
them,  and  frequently  I  got  up  and  walked  past, 
listening  to  the  subdued  clink  of  silver  bracelets 
and  anklets,  and  sniffing  the  wisps  of  ghee  and 
curry  and  hemp  which  drifted  out.  Nose-rings 
flashed,  and  in  the  dim  station  light  I  caught 
faint  gleams  of  pastel  scarves — sea-green  and 
rose.  I  longed  for  Kim's  disguise,  but  I  knew 
that  before  many  stations  were  passed  the  con- 
centration of  mingled  odors  would  have  driven 
me  back  to  my  solitude.  Perhaps  the  chief  joy 
of  it  all  lay  in  the  vignettes  of  memory  which  it 
aroused :  that  unbelievable  hot  midnight  at  Agra ; 
the  glimpse  of  sheer  Paradise  in  a  sunrise  on  the 
slopes  of  Kinchin junga;  the  odors  of  a  caravan 
headed  for  the  Khyber  Pass. 

When  I  returned  to  my  coach  I  found  I  was 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  95 

to  have  company.  A  stout — no,  exceedingly  fat 
— bespectacled  gentleman,  with  pigment  of 
ebony,  and  arrayed  in  full  evening  dress  and 
high  hat,  was  guarding  a  small  dilapidated  suit- 
case, and  glaring  at  him  across  the  aisle  was  a 
man  of  chocolate  hue,  with  the  straight  black 
hair  of  the  East  Indian  and  the  high  cheek- 
bones and  slanting  eyes  of  the  Mongolian.  His 
dress  was  a  black  suit  of  heavy  Scotch  plaid, 
waistcoat  and  all,  with  diamonds  and  loud  tie, 
and  a  monocle  which  he  did  not  attempt  to 
use.  Far  off  in  the  distant  corner  lounged  a 
bronzed  planter  in  comfortable  muddy  clothes. 
But  we  three  upheld  the  prestige  of  the  west 
end  of  the  carriage. 

Soon,  impelled  by  the  great  heat,  I  removed 
my  coat  and  was  looked  at  askance;  but  I  was 
the  only  comfortable  one  of  the  three.  With 
the  planter  I  should  have  liked  to  converse,  but 
with  those  who  sat  near  I  held  no  communica- 
tion. I  could  think  of  them  only  as  insincere 
imitators  of  customs  wholly  unadapted  to  their 
present  lives  and  country.  I  could  have  re- 
spected them  so  much  more  if  they  had  clad 
themselves  in  cool  white  duck.  I  hold  that  a 
man  is  not  worth  knowing  who  will  endure  ex- 


96  JUNGLE  PEACE 

cessive  tropical  heat,  perspiring  at  every  pore, 
because  his  pride  demands  a  waistcoat  and  coat 
of  thickest  woolen  material,  which  would  have 
been  comfortable  in  a  blizzard.  So  I  went  out 
again  to  look  at  the  coolies  with  their  honest 
garb  of  draped  linen,  and  they  seemed  more 
sincere  and  worthy  of  acquaintance. 

We  started  at  last,  and  only  a  few  miles  of 
glistening  rails  had  passed  beneath  us  when, 
finally,  proof  of  the  complete  schism  between 
police  and  weather  bureaus  became  evident:  the 
fresh  tradewind  dispersed  the  rain!  The  clouds 
remained,  however — low,  swirling  masses  of 
ashy-blue,  billowing  out  like  smoke  from  a 
bursting  shell,  or  fraying  in  pale  gray  tatters, 
tangling  the  fronds  of  lofty  palms.  For  the 
rest  of  the  day  the  light  came  from  the  hori- 
zon— a  thrillingly  weird,  indirect  illumination, 
which  lent  vividness  and  intensity  to  every 
view.  The  world  was  scoured  clean,  the  air 
cleansed  of  every  particle  of  dust,  while  the 
clouds  lent  a  cool  freshness  wholly  untropical, 
and  hour  after  hour  the  splendid  savannah 
lands  of  the  coast  of  Guiana  slipped  past,  as  we 
rumbled  swiftly  southward  along  the  entire 
shore-front. 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  97 

At  first  we  passed  close  to  the  sea,  and  this 
was  the  most  exciting  part  of  the  trip.  In 
places  the  dikes  had  given  way  and  the  tur- 
bulent muddy  waters  had  swept  inland  over 
rice  and  cane-fields,  submerging  in  one  impla- 
cable tide  the  labor  of  years.  A  new  dike,  of 
mud  and  timbers  and  sweet-smelling  hurdles  of 
black  sage,  had  been  erected  at  the  roadside, 
and  past  this  went  all  traffic.  Now  and  then 
an  automobile  had  to  slow  up  until  a  great 
wave  broke,  and  then  dash  at  full  speed  across 
the  danger-spot.  In  spite  of  the  swiftness,  the 
wind-flung  spray  of  the  next  wave  would  drench 
the  occupants.  The  lowering  sea-water  glistened 
among  the  sickly  plants,  and  strange  fish  trou- 
bled the  salty  pools  as  they  sought  uneasily  for 
an  outlet  to  the  ocean.  A  flock  of  skimmers 
looked  wholly  out  of  place  driving  past  a  clump 
of  bamboos. 

Then  the  roadbed  shifted  inland,  and  lines 
of  patient,  humped  zebus  trailed  slowly  from 
their  sheds — sheds  of  larger  size  and  better  built 
than  the  huts  of  their  owners.  These  open- 
work homes  were  picturesque  and  unobtrusive; 
they  fitted  into  the  landscape  as  if,  like  the 
palms,  they  had  come  into  being  through  years 


98  JUNGLE  PEACE 

of  quiet  assimilation  of  water  and  warmth. 
Their  walls  were  of  mud,  adobe,  mere  casual 
upliftings  of  the  sticky  soil  which  glistened  in 
every  direction.  Their  roofs  were  of  trooly- 
palm  fronds,  brown  and  withered,  as  though 
they  had  dropped  from  invisible  trees  high  over- 
head. Like  the  coolies  themselves,  the  houses 
offered  no  note  of  discord. 

I  had  just  come  from  the  deep  jungle  of  the 
interior  with  its  varying  lights  and  shadows,  its 
myriad  color-grades,  pastel,  neutral  in  quality. 
Here  was  boldness  of  stroke,  sharpness  of  out- 
line, strength  of  pigment.  All  the  dominant 
tones  of  this  newly  washed  coastal  region  were 
distinct  and  incisive.  Clear-cut  silhouettes  of 
vultures  and  black  witch-birds  were  hunched  on 
fence-posts  and  shrubs.  Egrets,  like  manikins 
cut  from  the  whitest  of  celluloid,  shone  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see  them.  As  if  the  rain  had  dis- 
solved and  washed  away  every  mixed  shade  and 
hue,  the  eye  registered  only  flaming,  clashing 
Colors;  great  flocks  of  birds  black  as  night,  save 
for  a  glowing  scarlet  gorget;  other  black  birds 
with  heads  of  shining  gold,  flashing  as  the  fili- 
gree nose-beads  flash  against  the  rich  dark  skin 
of  the  coolies. 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  99 

Like  the  colors,  the  sounds  were  individual- 
ized by  sharpness  of  tone,  incisiveness  of  utter- 
ance. The  violent  cries  of  flycatchers  cleft  the 
air,  and,  swiftly  as  we  passed,  struck  on  my  ear 
fair  and  strong.  The  notes  of  the  blackbirds 
were  harmonious  shafts  of  sound,  cleaving  the 
air  like  the  whistle  of  the  meadowlark.  Hawks 
with  plumage  of  bright  cinnamon  and  cream, 
hurled  crisp,  piercing  shrieks  at  the  train.  Only 
the  vultures,  strung  like  ebony  beads  along  the 
fronds  of  the  cocoanut  palms,  spread  their  wings 
to  dry,  and  dumbly  craned  their  necks  down  as 
we  passed. 

Past  Mahaica  and  Abary  we  rushed,  the 
world  about  us  a  sliding  carpet  of  all  the  emer- 
ald tints  in  the  universe.  And  just  as  the  last 
tint  had  been  used  up  and  I  knew  there  must  be 
some  repetition,  the  clouds  split  and  a  ray  of 
pure  sunlight  shot  through  the  clear  air  and 
lit  up  a  field  of  growing  rice  with  living  green 
of  a  still  newer  hue,  an  unearthly  concentrated 
essence  of  emerald  which  was  comparable  to 
nothing  but  sprouting  rice  in  rain-washed  sun- 
light. Whether  this  be  on  the  hot  coastlands 
of  Java,  in  tiny  sod-banked  terraces  far  up  on 
the  slopes  of  Dehra  Dun,  or  in  the  shadow  of 


100  JUNGLE  PEACE 

Fuji  itself,  makes  no  manner  of  difference. 
The  miracle  of  color  never  fails. 

Trees  were  so  rare  that  one  was  compelled  to 
take  notice  of  them.  High  above  the  bamboos, 
high  above  even  those  arboreal  towers  of  Pisa, 
the  cocoanut  palms,  rose  the  majestic  silk-cotton 
trees,  bare  of  leaves  at  this  season,  with  great 
branches  shooting  out  at  breathless  heights. 
Like  strange  gourd-like  fruit,  three  sizes  of 
nests  hung  pendant  from  these  lofty  boughs: 
short,  scattered  purses  of  yellow  orioles,  colonied 
clusters  of  the  long  pouches  of  yellow-backed 
bunyahs,  and,  finally,  the  great,  graceful,  woven 
trumpets  of  the  giant  black  caciques,  rarely 
beautiful,  and,  like  the  trees,  scarce  enough  to 
catch  and  hold  the  eye.  The  groves  of  cocoanut 
palms,  like  a  hundred  enormous  green  rockets 
ever  bursting  in  mid-air,  checkered  the  sunlight, 
which  sifted  through  and  was  made  rosy  by  a 
host  of  lotus  blooms  beneath.  Then  the  scene 
changed  in  a  few  yards,  and  low,  untropical 
shrubs  filled  the  background,  while  at  our  feet 
rose  rank  upon  rank  of  cat-tails,  and  we  might 
be  passing  across  the  Jersey  meadows. 

Each  little  station  was  the  focus  of  a  world 
of  its  own.  Coolies  and  blacks  excitedly  hus- 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  101 

tied  to  place  on  board  their  contribution  to  the 
world's  commerce: — tomatoes  no  larger  than 
cherries,  in  beautifully  woven  baskets ;  a  crate  of 
chickens  or  young  turkeys;  a  live  sheep  protest- 
ing and  entangled  in  the  spokes  of  an  old- 
fashioned  bicycle;  a  box  of  fish,  flashing  silver 
and  old  rose.  Some  had  only  a  single  bundle 
of  fodder  to  offer.  At  one  station,  quaintly 
named  De  Kinderen,  a  clear-faced  coolie  boy 
pushed  a  small  bunch  of  plantains  into  the 
freight  van,  then  sat  on  the  steps.  As  the  train 
started  to  move  he  settled  himself  as  if  for  a 
long  ride,  and  for  a  second  or  two  closed  his 
eyes.  Then  he  opened  them,  climbed  down,  and 
swung  off  into  the  last  bit  of  clearing.  His  face 
was  sober,  not  a-smile  at  a  thoughtless  lark.  I 
looked  at  his  little  back  as  he  trudged  toward 
his  home,  and  wondered  what  desire  for  travel, 
for  a  glimpse  of  the  world,  was  back  of  it  all. 
And  I  wished  that  I  could  have  asked  him  about 
it  and  taken  him  with  me.  This  little  narrow- 
gauge  link  with  the  outside  world  perhaps  scat- 
ters heartaches  as  well  as  shekels  along  its  right 
of  way. 

I  was  watching  a  flock  of  giant  anis,  which 
bubbled   cheerfully  on  their  slow  flight  across 


102  JUNGLE  PEACE 

the  fields,  when  a  wide  expanse  of  water  blocked 
our  way,  and  we  drew  up  at  the  bank  of  the 
Berbice  River. 

In  the  course  of  five  days  at  New  Amster- 
dam we  achieved  our  object.  We  found  hoat- 
zins,  their  nests,  eggs,  and  young,  and  perpetu- 
ated in  photographs  their  wonderful  habits 
handed  down  through  all  the  ages  past,  from 
the  time  when  reptiles  were  the  dominant  be- 
ings, and  birds  and  mammals  crept  about, 
understudying  their  role  to  come,  as  yet  uncer- 
tain of  themselves  and  their  heritage.  When 
we  needed  it  the  sun  broke  through  the  rain  and 
shone  brightly;  when  our  lenses  were  ready,  the 
baby  hoatzins  ran  the  gamut  of  their  achieve- 
ments. They  crept  on  all  fours,  they  climbed 
with  fingers  and  toes,  they  dived  headlong,  and 
swam  as  skilfully  as  any  Hesperornis  of  old. 
This  was,  and  I  think  always  will  be,  to  me, 
the  most  wonderful  sight  in  the  world.  To  see 
a  tiny  living  bird  duplicate  within  a  few  minutes 
the  processes  which,  evolved  slowly  through  un- 
counted years,  have  at  last  culminated  in  the 
world  of  birds  as  we  find  it  today — this  is  im- 
pressive beyond  words.  No  poem,  no  picture, 
no  terrible  danger,  no  sight  of  men  killed  or 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  103 

injured  has  ever  affected  me  as  profoundly  as 
this. 

Thus  the  primary  object  of  the  trip  was 
accomplished.  But  that  is  a  poor  expedition 
indeed  which  does  not  yield  another  hundred  per 
cent,  in  oblique  values,  of  things  seen  out  of  the 
corner  of  one's  eyes. 

If  one  is  an  official  or  an  accredited  visitor  to 
Berbice,  the  Colony  House  is  placed  at  one's 
service.  I  am  sure  that  it  is  quite  the  ugliest 
of  all  colony  houses,  and  surrounded  by  what  I 
am  equally  sure  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
tropical  gardens.  If  Berbice  held  no  other  at- 
traction it  would  be  worth  visiting  to  see  this 
garden.  The  first  floor  of  Colony  House  is 
offices,  the  second  is  the  Supreme  Court,  and 
when  I  peeped  in  I  saw  there  were  three  occu- 
pants— a  great  yellow  cat  curled  up  in  the 
judge's  chair,  and  two  huge  toads  solemnly 
regarding  each  other  from  the  witness-box  and 
the  aisle. 

Three  stories  in  Guiana  constitute  a  sky- 
scraper, and  that  night  I  slept  on  a  level  with 
the  palm  fronds.  It  was  a  house  of  a  thousand 
sounds.  During  the  day  hosts  of  carpenters 
tore  off  uncountable  shingles  devastated  by 


104  JUNGLE  PEACE 

white  ants.  Two  antithetical  black  maids  at- 
tended noisily  but  skilfully  to  all  my  wants.  At 
night,  cats  and  frogs  divided  the  vocal  watches, 
and  a  patient  dog  never  tired  of  rolling  the 
garbage-can  downstairs  past  the  Supreme  Court 
to  the  first  floor.  I  thought  of  this  at  first  as 
some  strange  canine  rite,  a  thing  which  Alice 
could  have  explained  with  ease,  or  which  to 
Seumas  and  to  Slith  would  have  appeared  rea- 
sonable and  fitting.  I  used  to  wait  for  it  before 
I  went  to  sleep,  knowing  that  comparative  si- 
lence would  follow.  I  discovered  later  that  this 
intelligent  dog  had  learned  that,  by  nudging 
the  can  off  the  top  step,  the  cover  would  become 
dislodged  at  about  the  level  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  and  from  there  to  the  government  offices 
he  could  spend  a  night  of  gastronomic  joy, 
gradually  descending  to  the  level  of  the  entrance. 
A  kind  planter  put  me  up  at  the  club,  the 
usual  colonial  institution  where  one  may  play 
bridge  or  billiards,  drink  swizzles,  or  read  war 
telegrams  "  delayed  in  transit."  These  were 
the  usual  things  to  do,  daily  duties,  timed  almost 
regularly  by  the  kiskadees'  frantic  farewell  to 
the  day  or  the  dodging  of  the  first  vampire 
among  the  electric-light  bulbs.  But  in  this  ex- 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  105 

citing  country,  with  hoatzins  asleep  within  a 
half-mile,  I  could  not  bring  my  mind  to  any  of 
these  things,  and  wandered  about,  idly  turning 
the  leaves  of  dull  periodicals,  looking  at  cases 
of  cues  and  the  unfinished  records  of  past  bil- 
liard tournaments,  yellowed  with  age.  The 
steward  approached  timidly. 

"Would  the  sahib  like  to  see  the  library?" 
Yes,  the  sahib  decidedly  would.  We  climbed 
the  stairs,  creaking  as  if  they  complained  at 
the  unaccustomed  weight  of  footsteps,  to  the 
upper  room  of  the  club.  It  was  large,  barn- 
like  in  its  vacantness,  with  a  few  little  tables, 
each  surrounded  by  a  group  of  chairs,  like 
chickens  crowded  about  a  hen.  The  walls  were 
lined  with  books  and  there  was  an  atmosphere 
about  the  room  which  took  hold  of  me  at  once. 
I  could  not  identify  it  with  any  previous  experi- 
ence, certainly  not  with  the  libraries  of  George- 
town in  which  I  had  spent  days.  This  was 
something  subtle,  something  which  had  to  dis- 
cover itself.  The  steward  led  me  proudly  about, 
making  it  plain  that  his  affection  was  here  rather 
than  with  the  mixing  of  swizzles  below.  No,  he 
had  never  read  any  of  them,  but  he  would  feel 
honored  if  I  found  any  pleasure  in  them  and 


106  JUNGLE  PEACE 

would  condescend  to  borrow  one.  He  seemed 
rather  emphatic  on  this  point;  he  especially  de- 
sired that  I  take  one  to  Colony  House.  Then 
he  left  me. 

The  books  were  without  a  speck  of  dust,  each 
volume  in  its  place  and  aligned  with  precision. 
Little  by  little,  as  I  made  my  round,  nibbling 
at  a  book  here  and  there,  the  secret  of  the  place 
came  to  me :  it  was  a  library  of  the  past,  a  dead 
library.  There  seemed  something  uncanny, 
something  unreal  about  it.  Here  were  hundreds 
of  books,  there  tables  and  chairs,  but  no  one  ever 
used  them.  Yet  it  was  in  the  center  of  a  large 
town  just  above  the  most  frequented  gathering- 
place.  More  than  this  the  library  itself  was 
obsolete.  No  volume  had  been  added  for  many 
years.  Most  of  them  were  old,  old  tomes,  richly 
bound  in  leather  and  tree  calf.  Nearly  all  were 
strange  to  me — little-known  histories  and  charm- 
ingly naive  "  Conversations "  and  memoirs  of 
generations  ago.  They  were  delicately,  grace- 
fully worded,  many  of  them;  one  could  feel  the 
lace  and  velvet  of  the  sleeve  which  had  touched 
them;  the  subtle  musty  odors  of  the  yellowed 
page  and  crumbling  leather  seemed  tinged  with 
faint,  strange  perfumes.  It  was  astounding  and 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  107 

very  affecting,  and  my  interest  increased  with 
every  minute. 

The  evening  chorus  of  the  tropical  night  had 
commenced  outside,  and  a  glance  out  of  the 
window  showed  a  network  of  motionless  fronds 
dimly  outlined  against  the  rose-colored  clouds 
over  the  waters  of  the  Berbice.  Below  I  heard 
the  soft  click  of  billiard  balls.  Then  I  returned 
to  the  books.  Their  rich  bindings  were  falling 
apart,  musty,  worm-eaten,  many  held  together 
only  by  a  string.  It  was  as  if  I  had  entered  the 
richly  filled  library  of  some  old  manor-house 
which  had  been  sealed  up  for  two-score  years, 
and  yet  kept  lovingly  dusted.  It  was  this 
sense  of  constant  care  which  served  to  empha- 
size the  weird  isolation,  the  uncanny  desola- 
tion. 

I  glanced  at  Lives  of  the  Lindsays,  by  Lord 
Lindsay,  a  work  of  sixty-five  years  ago,  un^ 
known  to  me,  quaint  and  delightful.  This 
rubbed  covers  with  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 
On  another  shelf  I  recall  The  Colloquies  of  Ed- 
ward Osborne,  Citizen  and  Clothmaker  of  Lon- 
don, which  held  me  until  I  knew  that  the  Colony 
House  dog  would  get  all  of  my  dinner  if  I  did 
not  start  homewards.  The  next  volume  to  this 


108  JUNGLE  PEACE 

was  a  friend,  Thier's  The  Consulate  and  the 
Empire.  Then  I  walked  past  stacks  of  old- 
fashioned  novels,  nearly  all  in  three  volumes. 
Their  names  were  strange,  and  I  suppose  they 
would  prove  deadly  reading  to  our  generation; 
but  I  am  sure  that  in  their  day  they  fascinated 
many  eyes  reading  by  the  flickering  light  of 
tapers  and  rushes.  And  even  now  they  stood 
bravely  alongside  Dickens  and  Scott. 

Finally  I  reached  up  to  the  highest  row  and 
chose  one  of  a  series  of  heavy  tomes  whose  titles 
had  completely  fallen  away  with  age  and  cli- 
mate. I  untied  the  binding  string,  opened  at 
random  and  read  thus:— 

*  It  is  vain,  then,  any  longer  to  insist  on 
variations  of  organic  structure  being  the  result 
of  habits  or  circumstances.  Nothing  has  been 
elongated,  shortened  or  modified,  either  by  ex- 
ternal causes  or  internal  volition;  all  that  has 
been  changed  has  been  changed  suddenly,  and 
has  left  nothing  but  wrecks  behind  it,  to  adver- 
tise us  of  its  former  existence." 

Thus  wrote  the  Baron  Cuvier  many  years 
ago.  And  this  brought  me  back  to  reality,  and 
my  study  of  those  living  fossils  now  asleep  in 
the  neighboring  bunduri  thorn  bushes,  whose 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  109 

nestlings  so  completely  refute  the  good  baron's 
thesis. 

As  I  reached  the  door  I  selected  a  volume  at 
random  to  take  back  to  Colony  House.  I  put 
out  the  lights  and  turned  a  moment  to  look 
about.  The  platinum  wires  still  glowed  dully, 
and  weak  moonlight  now  filled  the  room  with  a 
silver  grayness.  I  wondered  whether,  in  the 
magic  of  some  of  these  tropical  nights,  when  the 
last  ball  had  been  pocketed  and  the  last  swizzle 
drunk  belowstairs,  some  of  the  book-lovers  of 
olden  times,  who  had  read  these  volumes  and 
turned  down  the  creased  pages,  did  not  return 
and  again  laugh  and  cry  over  them.  There  was 
no  inharmonious  note:  no  thrilling  short  stories, 
no  gaudy  chromatic  bindings,  no  slangy  terse 
titles,  no  magazines  or  newspapers.  Such  gen- 
tlefolk as  came  could  have  sat  there  and  listened 
to  the  crickets  and  the  occasional  cry  of  a  dis- 
tant heron  and  have  been  untroubled  by  the 
consciousness  of  any  passage  of  time. 

I  learned  that  this  Library  Club  had  been 
the  oldest  in  the  West  Indies,  founded  about 
three  quarters  of  a  century  ago.  It  had  long 
ceased  to  exist,  and  no  one  ever  disturbed  the 
quietness  of  the  gradual  dissolution  of  this  ad- 


110  JUNGLE  PEACE 

mirable  collection  of  old  works.  I  walked  slowly 
back,  thinking  of  the  strange  contrast  between 
what  I  had  seen  and  the  unlovely,  commercial- 
ized buildings  along  the  street.  I  was  startled 
from  my  reverie  by  the  challenge  of  the  sentry, 
and  for  a  moment  could  not  think  what  to  an- 
swer. I  had  well-nigh  forgotten  my  own  per- 
sonality in  the  vividness  of  the  stately  early 
Victorian  atmosphere. 

Long  after  the  Colony  House  dog  had  noisily 
announced  the  beginning  of  his  nocturnal  feast, 
I  lay  behind  my  net  poring  over  the  Memoirs 
of  the  Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  as  related  by  her- 
self in  conversations  with  her  physician,  com- 
prising her  opinions  and  anecdotes  of  some  most 
remarkable,  persons,  and  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  by  far  the  most  remarkable  of  them  all 
was  Lady  Hester  herself. 

Berbice,  we  were  told  by  residents  elsewhere, 
was  behind  the  times.  I  found  it  up  to  date, 
colonially  speaking,  and,  indeed,  possessing 
certain  ideas  and  ideals  which  might  advan- 
tageously be  dispersed  throughout  the  colony. 
But  New  Amsterdam,  with  all  its  commercial 
hardness  of  outline  and  sordid  back  streets, 
flashed  out  in  strangely  atavistic  touches  now  and 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  111 

then;  a  sort  of  quintessence  of  out-of-dateness 
which  no  inhabitant  suspected,  and  which  was  in- 
capable of  legislative  change.  First,  there  were 
hoatzins,  hinting  of  seons  of  years  ago ;  then,  the 
library,  which  preserved  so  perfectly  the  atmos- 
phere of  our  great  grandparents.  And  now, 
as  I  left  the  compound  of  Colony  House  in 
the  early  morning,  I  watched  with  fascination  a 
coolie  woman  bearing  a  great  bundle  of  loosely 
bound  fagots  on  her  head.  As  she  walked,  they 
kept  dropping  out,  and  instead  of  leaning  down 
or  squatting  and  so  endangering  the  equili- 
brium of  all  the  rest,  she  simply  shifted  her 
weight  to  one  foot,  and  felt  about  with  the  other. 
When  it  encountered  the  fallen  stick,  the  big 
toe  uncannily  separated  and  curled  about  it, 
and  she  instantly  bent  her  knee,  passed  up  the 
stick  to  her  hand  and  thence  to  the  bundle  again. 
It  surpassed  anything  I  had  ever  seen  among 
savages — the  handlike  mobility  of  that  coolie 
woman's  toes.  And  I  thought  that,  if  she  was 
a  woman  of  Simla  or  of  the  Western  Ghats, 
then  my  belief  in  the  Siwalik  origin  of  mankind 
was  irrevocable! 

It  seemed  as  if  I  could  not  escape  from  the 
spell  of  the  past.     I  walked  down  to  a  dilapi- 


112  JUNGLE  PEACE 

dated  stalling  to  photograph  a  mob  of  vultures, 
and  there  found  a  small  circle  of  fisherfolk 
cleaning  their  catch.  They  were  wild-looking 
negroes  and  coolies,  half -naked,  and  grunting 
with  the  exertion  of  their  work.  A  glance  at 
the  fish  again  drove  me  from  Berbice  into  ages 
long  gone  by.  Armored  catfish  they  were,  remi- 
niscent of  the  piscine  glories  of  Devonian  times 
— uncouth  creatures,  with  outrageously  long 
feelers  and  tentacles,  misplaced  fins,  and  mostly 
ensconced  in  bony  armor,  sculptured  and  em- 
bossed with  designs  in  low  relief.  I  watched 
with  half -closed  eyes  the  fretted  shadows  of  the 
palms  playing  over  the  glistening  black  bodies 
of  the  men,  and  the  spell  of  the  strange  fish 
seemed  to  shift  the  whole  scene  centuries,  tens 
of  centuries,  backward. 

The  fish,  attractive  in  the  thought  suggested 
by  their  ancient  armor,  were  quite  unlovely  in 
their  present  surroundings.  Piles  of  them  were 
lying  about  in  the  hot  sun,  under  a  humming 
mass  of  flies,  awaiting  their  unhurried  transit 
to  the  general  market.  When  the  fishermen 
had  collected  a  quantity  of  heads,  appar- 
ently the  chief  portions  considered  inedible, 
these  were  scraped  off  the  stelling  to  the  mud 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  113 

beneath.  At  this  there  arose  a  monstrous  hiss- 
ing and  a  whistle  of  wings,  and  a  cloud  of  black 
vultures  descended  with  a  rush  and  roar  from 
surrounding  roofs  and  trees. 

While  watching  and  photographing  them,  I 
saw  an  antithesis  of  bird-life  such  as  I  had 
never  imagined.  The  score  of  vultures  fought 
and  tore  and  slid  about  in  the  black  noisome 
mud  exposed  by  the  low  tide.  Sometimes  they 
were  almost  back  downward — fairly  slithering 
through  the  muck  to  seize  some  shred  of  fish, 
hissing  venomously;  and  at  last  spreading  filthy, 
mud-dripping  pinions  to  flap  heavily  away  a  few 
paces.  In  disgust  at  the  sight  and  sound  and 
odor,  I  started  to  turn  back,  when  in  the  air 
just  above  the  fighting  mass,  within  reach  of 
the  flying  mud,  poised  a  hummingbird,  clean 
and  fresh  as  a  rain-washed  blossom.  With  cap 
of  gold  and  gorget  of  copper,  this  smallest, 
most  ethereal,  and  daintiest  of  birds  hung  bal- 
anced just  above  the  most  offensive  of  avian 
sights.  My  day  threatened  to  be  one  of  emo- 
tion instead  of  science. 

Berbice  vouchsafed  one  more  surprise,  a  mem- 
ory from  the  past  which  appeared  and  vanished 
in  an  instant.  One  of  the  most  delightful  of 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

men  was  taking  me  out  to  where  the  hoatzins 
lived.  We  went  in  his  car,  which,  and  I  use 
his  own  simile,  was  as  truly  a  relic  as  anything 
I  have  mentioned.  I  have  been  in  one-horse 
shays.  I  have  ridden  for  miles  in  a  Calcutta 
gharry.  I  was  now  in  a  one-cylinder  knock- 
about which  in  every  way  lived  up  to  its  name. 
It  was  only  after  a  considerable  time  that  I  felt 
assured  that  the  mud-guards  and  wheels  were 
not  on  the  point  of  leaving  us.  When  I  had 
also  become  accustomed  to  the  clatter  and  bang 
of  loose  machinery  I  was  once  more  able  to  look 
around.  I  had  become  fairly  familiar  with  the 
various  racial  types  of  Guiana,  and  with  some 
accuracy  I  could  distinguish  the  more  apparent 
strains.  Halfway  through  the  town  we  passed 
three  girls,  one  a  coolie,  the  second  dominantly 
negroid,  while  the  third  showed  the  delicate  pro- 
file, the  subtle  color,  the  unmistakable  physiog- 
nomy of  a  Syrian.  She  might  have  posed  for 
the  finest  of  the  sculptures  on  a  Babylonian 
wall.  I  turned  in  astonishment  to  my  host,  who 
explained  that  years  ago  some  Syrian  peddlers 
had  come  this  way,  remained,  prospered,  and 
sent  for  their  wives.  Now  their  children  had 
affiliated  with  the  other  varied  types — affiliated 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  115 

in  language  and  ideas  perhaps,  but  not,  in  one 
case  at  least,  at  the  expense  of  purity  of  facial 
lineament  of  race. 

As  I  have  said,  success  with  the  hoatzins  came 
swiftly  and  completely.  We  had  discovered  a 
few  nests  with  young  birds  of  just  the  right  age 
and  in  positions  which  left  nothing  to  be  de- 
sired. Yet  when  a  jovial  Scotch  manager  came 
with  news  that  one  of  his  coolies  knew  of  col- 
onies of  hundreds  of  breeding  anaquas,  we 
decided  to  take  the  whole  of  the  proverbial  cake 
instead  of  being  satisfied  with  our  generous 
slice.  So  we  made  all  preparations  and  left 
Colony  House  early  one  morning. 

To  be  equal  to  the  occasion  we  went  in  full 
force,  with  two  servants,  an  Indian  and  a  black, 
and  an  automobile  full  of  duffle,  guns,  nets  to 
catch  the  young  birds,  glasses,  notebooks,  game- 
bags,  and  ropes.  As  usual  it  poured  in  torrents 
at  daybreak  but  cleared  somewhat  as  we  started. 
A  reckless  Creole  driver  hurled  our  tiny  Ford 
through  deep  puddles  and  around  corners,  and 
we  rocked  and  skidded  and  splashed,  and  were 
forever  just  grazing  coolies  and  their  carts. 

A  land  of  a  thousand  surprises!  We  stopped 
a  moment  at  the  lunatic  asylum  to  borrow  an 


116  JUNGLE  PEACE 

ax,  and  it  was  presently  brought  to  us  by  a 
smiling,  kindly  old  coolie  inmate,  who  kept 
murmuring  Hindustani  to  himself.  As  we  drove 
on,  a  gigantic  black  man  appeared  on  the  ridge* 
pole  of  the  highest  building  and,  stark  naked, 
rushed  aimlessly  back  and  forth,  stamping  glee- 
fully on  the  corrugated  iron,  and  chanting  as 
he  stamped.  We  gazed  on  the  axe  and  for  once 
did  not  chide  the  driver  in  his  reckless  prog- 
ress. 

With  relief  we  reached  the  bridge,  where  our 
Scotch  friend  had  kindly  provided  mule,  rope, 
boat,  and  coolies.  We  waited  for  a  while,  but 
as  the  downpour  showed  no  signs  of  abating,  we 
started  on  one  of  the  wildest,  weirdest  journeys 
I  have  ever  taken.  The  trench  was  narrow  and 
deep,  the  boat  was  overladen,  the  banks  were  er- 
ratic, the  mule  was  fractious,  and  the  coolies  were 
extremely  unskilful.  For  the  first  half-mile  the 
trench  was  crowded  with  great  dreadnaughts 
of  iron  cane-boats,  wholly  irresponsible  in  posi- 
tion and  movements.  In  places  our  speed 
caused  a  troubling  of  the  water  far  ahead,  and 
this  now  and  again  swung  a  cane-barge  directly 
across  our  path.  Again  and  again  the  stern  of 
our  boat  would  develop  a  sentient  mind  of  its 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  117! 

own  and  swirl  ahead.  Then  followed  a  chorus 
of  yells  at  the  mule-boy,  and  a  nervous  half- 
rising  in  the  boat,  and  a  still  more  terrible 
silence,  broken  at  last  by  a  crash — hollow  and 
echoing  if  we  struck  a  cane-barge,  splintering 
if  against  a  log  or  stump.  The  boat  would  tip, 
several  gallons  of  water  pour  in,  and  then  there 
became  audible  our  minute  and  detailed  opinions 
of  coolies  and  mules  in  general  and  ours  in  par- 
ticular. 

Of  course  every  one  who  came  between  our 
mule  and  the  bank  had  to  flee,  or  else  was 
scraped  into  the  trench  by  the  rope;  and  we  left 
in  our  wake  knots  of  discomfited  coolie  women 
who  had  been  washing  themselves  or  their  clothes 
and  who  had  to  escape  at  the  last  moment. 
Calves  were  a  source  of  intense  excitement,  and 
their  gambols  and  intricate  manipulations  of  our 
rope  would  have  been  highly  amusing  if  the  re- 
sult of  each  encounter  had  not  been  mixed  up 
so  acutely  with  our  own  fate.  I  sat  crouched 
down,  a  water-soaked  mound  of  misery.  Miser- 
able, for  I  was  still  partly  dry,  having  on  the 
only  raincoat,  for  the  purpose  of  protecting  our 
precious  camera.  Water  ran  up  hill  that  morn- 
ing, seeking  out  crevices  and  buttonholes  by 


118  JUNGLE  PEACE 

which  to  penetrate  to  my  person  and  to  the 
leather-covered  box  which  was  so  precious. 

Things  went  better  after  we  made  the  dis- 
covery that  we  were  progressing  bow-hindmost. 
And  all  the  time  the  rain  poured  down,  and 
coolie  women  and  girls  plodded  drearily  by  to 
work.  We  landed  finally  and,  in  despair  of 
photography,  I  cached  the  camera  beneath  a 
slanting  tree.  Then  we  began  a  tramp  through 
all  the  mud  in  the  world.  There  is  only  one 
place  where  the  mud  is  deeper  and  more  sticky 
than  by  a  sugar-plantation  trench,  and  that  is 
on  the  dividing  dikes  of  a  Chinese  rice-field.  We 
slipped  and  slid,  and  when  our  shoes  became 
too  heavy  to  lift,  we  dabbled  them  in  the  trench 
and  washed  them.  In  brief  intervals  of  less 
beavy  rain  we  watched  passing  herons  and 
hawks,  while  giant  anis  bubbled  and  grunted 
in  surprise  at  our  procession. 

At  last  the  never-to-be-forgotten  hoarse  gut- 
turals of  hoatzins  came  to  our  ears,  and  dimly 
through  the  rain  we  saw  one  small  branchful  of 
four  birds,  hunched  up  with  drenched  plumage. 
Two  others  were  posed  as  rain-worshipers — 
rufous  wings  widespread,  heads  stretched  out, 
welcoming  the  sheets  of  water  which  poured 


A  Hoatzin  Swamp 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS  119 

over  them.  Their  wild  crests,  though  sodden 
and  glued  together,  were  still  erect,  dripping 
and  swaying.  We  encircled  the  clump  of  trees 
and  found  deep  canals  and  trenches  on  all  sides. 
We  shot  one  bird,  which,  true  to  its  reptilian 
nature,  spread  both  wings,  locked  its  flight 
feathers  among  the  twists  of  a  liana  tangle,  and 
there  hung  suspended  out  of  reach. 

A  strange  coolie  now  appeared  out  of  the 
mist  and  promised  many,  many,  many  anaquas 
"  not  too  far  "  beyond.  We  shook  the  wet  from 
our  hat-brims,  squeezed  it  from  our  shoes,  and 
plodded  on.  The  cane-fields  seemed  never-end- 
ing, always  separated  by  lily-covered  trenches. 
Then  came  half-swampy  expanses  with  scat- 
tered trees.  Careful  search  revealed  another 
half-dozen  hoatzins,  sheltered  among  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  tallest  tree.  No  nests  were  visible, 
and  the  rain  was  so  heavy  that  we  could  not  look 
upward.  In  the  midst  of  the  vague  expanse  of 
this  dreary  world  a  rootie  spine-tail  perched  in 
a  tree  and  sang  three  notes.  We  shot  him 
because  we  could  think  of  no  other  way  at  that 
moment  of  relieving  our  feelings.  Then  we  had 
a  reaction,  almost  hysterical,  and  the  coolies 
murmured,  " Padliadme "  (madmen),  and  we 


120  JUNGLE  PEACE 

laughed  loudly  again  and  again  and  started 
homeward.  We  chaffed  the  coolies  until  they 
were  embarrassed;  we  slid  into  the  deepest  holes 
we  could  find.  We  made  set  speeches  on  the 
dampness  of  sugar-plantations,  on  tropical 
weather,  and  especially  on  the  veracity  of  the 
indentured  inhabitants  of  India.  It  was  all  as 
good-natured  as  it  sounded,  for,  after  all,  had 
we  not  already  found  the  birds  themselves  and 
obtained  our  notes  and  photographs? 

Then  we  discussed  the  psychology  of  rain  and 
of  getting  wet,  and  I  arrived  at  the  following 
conclusions,  which  are  true  ones.  Once  drenched 
to  the  skin  in  the  tropics,  all  discomfort  is  gone. 
One  simply  squdges  around  in  the  blissful  knowl- 
edge that  all  the  mud  and  water  in  the  world 
can  now  arouse  no  feeling  of  discomfort.  One 
has  simply  been  translated  to  a  new  world  of 
elements,  a  new  cosmos  of  sensation.  And  as 
with  most  such  transmigrations,  it  is  only  the 
shifting  which  is  disagreeable.  As  long  as  a 
shred  of  clothing  is  dry,  we  think  of  it  and 
worry  about  it,  and  endeavor  to  keep  it  dry, 
and  shrink  from  the  clammy  touch  of  partly 
sodden  foot-wear.  Once  we  slip  into  a  trench, 
the  rain  becomes  only  a  pleasant  tapping  on 


A  HUNT  FOR  HOATZINS 

one's  shoulders,  a  rhythmical,  liquid  vibration. 
With  all  fear  eliminated,  water  and  mud  become 
no  more  unpleasant  than  air  and  earth.  So  our 
plantation  expedition,  like  Gaul,  may  be  divided 
into  three  parts:  first,  a  thrilling,  dangerous,  ex- 
pectant phase;  a  brief  second  period  of  thor- 
oughly disappointing  revelation;  third,  a  jolly, 
unscientific,  and  wholly  hilarious  finale.  These 
are  the  trips  which  no  explorer  or  traveler  men- 
tions, because  there  are  no  tangible  returns. 
But  it  is  seldom  that  any  expedition,  however 
barren  of  direct  results,  cannot  be  made  to  yield 
some  viewpoint  of  interest. 

The  sun  had  just  risen  when  the  little  ferry- 
boat left  the  stelling  on  its  way  to  the  railway 
station  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river.  Half 
of  the  jungle  across  the  Berbice  was  dark,  dark 
green,  almost  black,  with  a  fragment  of  rain- 
bow hung  obliquely  above  it,  tangled  in  blue- 
black  clouds.  A  little  way  up-river  the  level 
sun's  rays  struck  fairly,  and  the  rounded,  cloud- 
like  billows  of  foliage  were  of  palest  sage-green. 
Our  shore  was  all  one  blatant  glare,  flooded 
already  with  the  violent  light  of  a  tropical  day. 
Against  the  black  Berbice  cloud  a  hundred 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

fork-tailed  flycatchers  flashed  and  vanished 
alternately  as  they  swerved  and  careened. 
Steadily  across  its  threatening  face  was  drawn 
a  single  line  of  scarlet — a  score  of  ibises  glow- 
ing like  the  essence  of  rubies. 


VI 
HOATZINS  AT  HOME 

THE  flight  of  the  hoatzin  resembles  that  of  an 
over-fed  hen.  The  hoatzin's  voice  is  no  more 
melodious  than  the  cry  of  a  peacock,  and  less 
sonorous  than  an  alligator's  roar.  The  bird's 
grace  is  batrachian  rather  than  avian,  while  the 
odor  of  its  body  resembles  that  of  no  bird  un- 
touched by  dissolution.  Still,  zoologically  con- 
sidered, the  hoatzin  is  probably  the  most  remark- 
able and  interesting  bird  living  on  the  earth 
today. 

It  has  successfully  defied  time  and  space. 
For  it,  the  dial  of  the  ages  has  moved  more 
slowly  than  for  the  rest  of  organic  life,  and 
although  living  and  breathing  with  us  today, 
yet  its  world  is  an  affair  of  two  dimensions — a 
line  of  thorny  saplings  threaded  along  the 
muddy  banks  of  a  few  tropical  waters. 

A  bird  in  a  cage  cannot  escape,  and  may  be 
found  month  after  month  wherever  the  cage  is 

123 


184  JUNGLE  PEACE 

placed.  A  stuffed  bird  in  a  case  may  resist  dis- 
integration for  a  century.  But  when  we  go  to 
look  for  the  bluebirds  which  nest  in  the  orchard, 
they  may  have  flown  a  half  mile  away  in  their 
search  for  food.  The  plover  which  scurries  be- 
fore us  today  on  the  beach  may  tonight  be  far 
away  on  the  first  lap  of  his  seven  thousand  mile 
flight  to  the  southward. 

The  hoatzin's  status  lies  rather  with  the  caged 
bird.  In  November  in  New  York  City  an  Eng- 
lishman from  British  Guiana  said  to  me,  "  Go  to 
the  Berbice  River,  and  at  the  north  end  of  the 
town  of  New  Amsterdam,  in  front  of  Mr. 
Beckett's  house,  you  will  find  hoatzins."  Six 
months  later  as  I  drove  along  a  tropical  river 
road  I  saw  three  hoatzins  perched  on  a  low 
thorn  bush  at  the  river's  edge  in  front  of  a 
house.  And  the  river  was  the  Berbice,  and  the 
house  that  of  Mr.  Beckett. 

Thus  are  the  hoatzins  independent  of  space, 
as  all  other  flying  birds  know  it,  and  in  their 
classic  reptilian  affinities, — voice,  actions,  arms, 
fingers,  habits, — they  bring  close  the  dim  epochs 
of  past  time,  and  renew  for  our  inspection  the 
youth  of  bird-life  on  the  earth.  It  is  discour- 
aging ever  to  attempt  to  translate  habits  fraught 


HOATZINS  AT  HOME  125 

with  so  profound  a  significance  into  words,  or 
to  make  them  realistic  even  with  the  aid  of 
photographs. 

We  took  a  boat  opposite  Mr.  Beckett's  house, 
and  paddled  slowly  with  the  nearly-flood  tide 
up  the  Berbice  River.  It  was  two  o'clock,  the 
hottest  time  of  the  day.  For  three  miles  we 
drifted  past  the  chosen  haunts  of  the  hoatzins. 
All  were  perched  in  the  shade,  quiet  in  the 
intense  heat,  squatting  prostrate  or  sleepily 
preening  their  plumage.  Now  and  then  we  saw 
a  bird  on  her  nest,  always  over  the  water.  If 
she  was  sitting  on  eggs  she  sat  close.  If  young 
birds  were  in  the  nest  she  half-crouched,  or 
perched  on  the  rim,  so  that  her  body  cast  a 
shadow  over  the  young. 

The  vegetation  was  not  varied.  Muckamucka 
was  here  and  there  in  the  foreground,  with  an 
almost  solid  line  of  bunduri  pimpler  or  thorn 
tree.  This  was  the  real  home  of  the  birds,  and 
this  plant  forms  the  background  whenever  the 
hoatzin  comes  to  mind.  It  is  a  growth  which 
loves  the  water,  and  crowds  down  so  that  the 
rising  of  the  tide,  whether  fresh  or  brackish, 
covers  the  mud  in  which  it  stands,  so  that  it 
appears  to  be  quite  as  aquatic  as  the  man- 


126  JUNGLE  PEACE 

grove  which,  here  and  there,  creeps  out  along- 
side it. 

The  pimpler  bears  thorns  of  the  first  magni- 
tude, often  double,  recurved  and  at  such  dia- 
bolically unexpected  places,  that  like  barbed 
wire,  it  is  impossible  to  grasp  anywhere  without 
drawing  blood.  Such  a  chevaux-de-frise  would 
defend  a  trench  against  the  most  courageous 
regiment.  The  stems  were  light  gray,  green- 
ing toward  the  younger  shoots,  and  the  foliage 
was  pleasantly  divided  into  double  lines  of 
locust-like  leaflets. 

The  plants  were  in  full  flower, — dainty,  up- 
right panicles  of  wisteria-like  pea-blooms,  pale 
violet  and  white  with  tiny  buds  of  magenta.  A 
faint,  subdued  perfume  drifted  from  them 
through  the  tangle  of  branches.  The  fruit  was 
ripening  on  many  plants,  in  clusters  of  green, 
semi-circular,  flat,  kidney  pods.  The  low 
branches  stretched  gracefully  waterwards  in 
long  sweeping  curves.  On  these  at  a  fork  or 
at  the  crossing  of  two  distinct  branches,  the 
hoatzins  placed  their  nests,  and  with  the  soft- 
tissued  leaflets  they  packed  their  capacious  crops 
and  fed  their  young. 

Besides  these  two  plants,  which   alone  may 


HOATZINS  AT  HOME  127 

be  considered  as  forming  the  principal  environ- 
ment, two  blooms  were  conspicuous  at  this  sea- 
son; a  deep-calyxed,  round  blossom  of  rich 
yellow, — an  hibiscus,  which  the  Indians  called 
makoe,  and  from  the  bark  of  which  they  made 
most  excellent  rope.  The  other  flower  was  a 
vine  which  crept  commonly  up  over  the  pimpler 
trees,  regardless  of  water  and  thorns,  and  hung 
out  twin  blossoms  in  profusion,  pink  and  pinkish- 
white,  trumpet-shaped,  with  flaring  lips. 

The  mid-day  life  about  this  haunt  of  hoatzins 
was  full  of  interest.  Tody-flycatchers  of  two 
species,  yellow-breasted  and  streaked,  were  the 
commonest  birds,  and  their  little  homes,  like  bits 
of  tide-hung  drift,  swayed  from  the  tips  of  the 
pimpler  branches.  They  dashed  to  and  fro  re- 
gardless of  the  heat,  and  whenever  we  stopped 
they  came  within  a  foot  or  two,  curiously  watch- 
ing our  every  motion.  Kiskadees  hopped  along 
the  water's  edge  in  the  shade,  snatching  insects 
and  occasionally  splashing  into  the  water  after 
small  fish.  Awkward  Guinea  green  herons,  not 
long  out  of  the  nest,  crept  like  shadow  silhou- 
ettes of  birds  close  to  the  dark  water.  High 
overhead,  like  flecks  of  jet  against  the  blue  sky, 
the  vultures  soared.  Green  dragonflies  whirled 


128  JUNGLE  PEACE 

here  and  there,  and  great  blue-black  bees  fum- 
bled in  and  out  of  the  hibiscus,  yellowed  with 
pollen  and  too  busy  to  stop  a  second  in  their 
day-long  labor. 

This  little  area  held  very  strange  creatures  as 
well,  some  of  which  we  saw  even  in  our  few 
hours'  search.  Four-eyed  fish  skittered  over  the 
water,  pale  as  the  ghosts  of  fish,  and  when 
quiet,  showing  only  as  a  pair  of  bubbly  eyes. 
Still  more  weird  hairy  caterpillars  wriggled 
their  way  through  the  muddy,  brackish  current 
—aquatic  larvae  of  a  small  moth  which  I  had 
not  seen  since  I  found  them  in  the  trenches  of 
Para. 

The  only  sound  at  this  time  of  day  was  a 
drowsy  but  penetrating  tr-r-r-r-r-p!  made  by  a 
green-bodied,  green-legged  grasshopper  of  good 
size,  whose  joy  in  life  seemed  to  be  to  lie  length- 
wise upon  a  pimpler  branch,  and  skreek  vio- 
lently at  frequent  intervals,  giving  his  wings 
a  frantic  flutter  at  each  utterance,  and  slowly 
encircling  the  stem. 

In  such  environment  the  hoatzin  lives  and 
thrives,  and,  thanks  to  its  strong  body  odor,  has 
existed  from  time  immemorial  in  the  face  of 
terrific  handicaps.  The  odor  is  a  strong  musky 


HOATZINS  AT  HOME  129 

one,  not  particularly  disagreeable.  I  searched 
my  memory  at  every  whiff  for  something  of 
which  it  vividly  reminded  me,  and  at  last  the 
recollection  came  to  me — the  smell,  delectable 
and  fearfully  exciting  in  former  years — of  ele- 
phants at  a  circus,  and  not  altogether  elephants 
either,  but  a  compound  of  one-sixth  sawdust, 
another  part  peanuts,  another  of  strange  ani- 
mals and  three-sixths  swaying  elephant.  That, 
to  my  mind,  exactly  describes  the  odor  of  hoat- 
zins  as  I  sensed  it  among  these  alien  surround- 
ings. 

As  I  have  mentioned,  the  nest  of  the  hoatzin 
was  invariably  built  over  the  water,  and  we  shall 
later  discover  the  reason  for  this.  The  nests 
were  sometimes  only  four  feet  above  high  water, 
or  equally  rarely,  at  a  height  of  forty  to  fifty 
feet.  From  six  to  fifteen  feet  included  the  zone 
of  four-fifths  of  the  nests  of  these  birds.  They 
varied  much  in  solidity,  some  being  frail  and 
loosely  put  together,  the  dry,  dead  sticks  which 
composed  them  dropping  apart  almost  at  a 
touch.  Usually  they  were  as  well  knitted  as  a 
heron's,  and  in  about  half  the  cases  consisted  of 
a  recent  nest  built  upon  the  foundations  of  an 
old  one.  There  was  hardly  any  cavity  at  the 


130  JUNGLE  PEACE 

top,  and  the  coarse  network  of  sticks  looked  like 
a  precarious  resting  place  for  eggs  and  an  ex- 
ceedingly uncomfortable  one  for  young  birds. 

When  we  approached  a  nest,  the  occupant 
paid  no  attention  until  we  actually  came  close 
to  a  branch,  or  shook  it.  She  then  rose,  pro- 
testing hoarsely,  and  lifting  wings  and  tail  as 
she  croaked.  At  the  last  moment,  often  when 
only  a  yard  away,  she  flew  off  and  away  to  a 
distance  of  fifty  feet  or  more.  Watching 
closely,  when  she  realized  that  we  really  had 
intentions  on  her  nest,  she  returned  and  perched 
fifteen  or  twenty  feet  away,  croaking  continu- 
ally, her  mate  a  little  farther  off,  and  all  the 
hoatzins  within  sight  or  hearing  joining  in  sym- 
pathetic disharmony,  all  with  synchronous  lift- 
ing of  tail  and  wings  at  each  utterance. 

The  voice  of  the  female  is  appreciably  deeper 
than  that  of  the  male,  having  more  of  a  gur- 
gling character,  like  one  of  the  notes  of  a  curas- 
sow.  The  usual  note  of  both  sexes  is  an  unwrit- 
able, hoarse,  creaking  sound,  quite  cicada  or 
frog-like. 

Their  tameness  was  astounding,  and  they 
would  often  sit  unmoved,  while  we  were  walking 
noisily  about,  or  focusing  the  camera  within  two 


HOATZINS  AT  HOME  131 

yards.  If  several  were  sitting  on  a  branch  and 
one  was  shot,  the  others  would  often  show  no 
symptoms  of  concern  or  alarm,  either  at  the 
noise  of  the  gun  or  the  fall  of  their  companion. 
A  hoatzin  which  may  have  been  crouched  close 
to  the  slain  bird  would  continue  to  preen  its 
plumage  without  a  glance  downward.  When 
the  young  had  attained  their  first  full  plumage 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  older  members  of  the  flock  except  by 
their  generally  smaller  size. 

But  the  heart  of  our  interest  in  the  hoatzins 
centered  in  the  nestlings.  Some  kind  Provi- 
dence directed  the  time  of  our  visit,  which  I 
chose  against  the  advice  of  some  of  the  very 
inhabitants  of  New  Amsterdam.  It  turned  out 
that  we  were  on  the  scene  exactly  at  the  right 
time.  A  week  either  way  would  have  yielded 
much  poorer  results.  The  nestlings,  in  seven 
occupied  nests,  observed  as  we  drifted  along 
shore,  or  landed  and  climbed  among  the  thorns, 
were  in  an  almost  identical  stage  of  develop- 
ment. In  fact,  the  greatest  difference  in  size 
occurred  between  two  nestlings  of  the  same 
brood.  Their  down  was  a  thin,  scanty,  fuzzy 
covering,  and  the  flight  feathers  were  less  than 


132  JUNGLE  PEACE 

a  half-inch  in  length.  No  age  would  have 
showed  to  better  advantage  every  movement  of 
wings  or  head. 

When  a  mother  hoatzin  took  reluctant  flight 
from  her  nest,  the  young  bird  at  once  stood  up- 
right and  looked  curiously  in  every  direction. 
No  slacker  he,  crouching  flat  or  awaiting  his 
mother's  directing  cries.  From  the  moment  he 
was  left  alone  he  began  to  depend  upon  the 
warnings  and  signs  which  his  great  beady  eyes 
and  skinny  ears  conveyed  to  him.  Hawks  and 
vultures  had  swept  low  over  his  nest  and  mother 
unheeded.  Coolies  in  their  boats  had  paddled 
underneath  with  no  more  than  a  glance  upward. 
Throughout  his  week  of  life,  as  through  his 
parents'  and  their  parents'  parents'  lives,  no 
danger  had  disturbed  their  peaceful  existence. 
Only  for  a  sudden  windstorm  such  as  that 
which  the  week  before  had  upset  nests  and 
blown  out  eggs,  it  might  be  said  that  for  the 
little  hoatzin  chicks  life  held  nothing  but  siestas 
and  munchings  of  pimpler  leaves. 

But  one  little  hoatzin,  if  he  had  any  thoughts 
such  as  these,  failed  to  count  on  the  invariable 
exceptions  to  every  rule,  for  this  day  the  totally 
unexpected  happened.  Fate,  in  the  shape  of 


HOATZINS  AT  HOME  133 

enthusiastic  scientists,  descended  upon  him.  He 
was  not  for  a  second  nonplussed.  If  we  had 
concentrated  upon  him  a  thousand  strong,  by 
boats  and  by  land,  he  would  have  fought  the 
good  fight  for  freedom  and  life  as  calmly  as  he 
waged  it  against  us.  And  we  found  him  no 
mean  antagonist,  and  far  from  reptilian  in  his 
ability  to  meet  new  and  unforeseen  conditions. 

His  mother,  who  a  moment  before  had  been 
packing  his  capacious  little  crop  with  predi- 
gested  pimpler  leaves,  had  now  flown  off  to  an 
adjoining  group  of  mangroves,  where  she  and 
his  father  croaked  to  him  hoarse  encouragement. 
His  flight  feathers  hardly  reached  beyond  his 
finger-tips,  and  his  body  was  covered  with  a 
sparse  coating  of  sooty  black  down.  So  there 
could  be  no  resort  to  flight.  He  must  defend 
himself,  bound  to  earth  like  his  assailants. 

Hardly  had  his  mother  left  when  his  comical 
head,  with  thick,  blunt  beak  and  large  intelli- 
gent eyes,  appeared  over  the  rim  of  the  nest. 
His  alert  expression  was  increased  by  the  sus- 
picion of  a  crest  on  his  crown  where  the  down 
was  slightly  longer.  Higher  and  higher  rose  his 
head,  supported  on  a  neck  of  extraordinary 
length  and  thinness.  No  more  than  this  was 


134  JUNGLE  PEACE 

needed  to  mark  his  absurd  resemblance  to  some 
strange,  extinct  reptile.  A  young  dinosaur  must 
have  looked  much  like  this,  while  for  all  that 
my  glance  revealed,  I  might  have  been  looking 
at  a  diminutive  Galapagos  tortoise.  Indeed  this 
simile  came  to  mind  often  when  I  became  more 
intimate  with,  nest  ling  hoatzins. 

Sam,  my  black  tree-climber,  kicked  off  his 
shoes  and  began  creeping  along  the  horizontal 
limbs  of  the  pimplers.  At  every  step  he  felt 
carefully  with  a  calloused  sole  in  order  to  avoid 
the  longer  of  the  cruel  thorns,  and  punctuated 
every  yard  with  some  gasp  of  pain  or  muttered 
personal  prayer,  :<  Pleas'  doan'  stick  me, 
Thorns!" 

At  last  his  hand  touched  the  branch,  and  it 
shook  slightly.  The  young  bird  stretched  his 
mittened  hands  high  above  his  head  and  waved 
them  a  moment.  With  similar  intent  a  boxer 
or  wrestler  flexes  his  muscles  and  bends  his 
body.  One  or  two  uncertain,  forward  steps 
brought  the  bird  to  the  edge  of  the  nest  at  the 
base  of  a  small  branch.  There  he  stood,  and 
raising  one  wing  leaned  heavily  against  the 
stem,  bracing  himself.  My  man  climbed  higher 
and  the  nest  swayed  violently. 


Xestling  Hoatzin  Climbing  with  Thumb  and  Forefinger 


HOATZINS  AT  HOME  135 

Now  the  brave  little  hoatzin  reached  up  to 
some  tiny  side  twigs  and  aided  by  the  project- 
ing ends  of  dead  sticks  from  the  nest,  he  climbed 
with  facility,  his  thumbs  and  forefingers  appar- 
ently being  of  more  aid  than  his  feet.  It  was 
fascinating  to  see  him  ascend,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  crane  his  head  and  neck  far  out,  turtle- 
wise.  He  met  every  difficulty  with  some  new 
contortion  of  body  or  limbs,  often  with  so  quick 
or  so  subtle  a  shifting  as  to  escape  my  scrutiny. 
The  branch  ended  in  a  tiny  crotch  and  here 
perforce,  ended  his  attempt  at  escape  by  climb- 
ing. He  stood  on  the  swaying  twig,  one  wing 
clutched  tight,  and  braced  himself  with  both 
feet. 

Nearer  and  nearer  crept  Sam.  Not  a  quiver 
on  the  part  of  the  little  hoatzin.  We  did  not 
know  it,  but  inside  that  ridiculous  head  there 
was  definite  decision  as  to  a  deadline.  He 
watched  the  approach  of  this  great,  strange 
creature — this  Danger,  this  thing  so  wholly  new 
and  foreign  to  his  experience,  and  doubtless  to 
all  the  generations  of  his  forbears.  A  black 
hand  grasped  the  thorny  branch  six  feet  from 
his  perch,  and  like  a  flash  he  played  his  next 
trick — the  only  remaining  one  he  knew,  one  that 


136  JUNGLE  PEACE 

set  him  apart  from  all  modern  land  birds,  as 
the  frog  is  set  apart  from  the  swallow. 

The  young  hoatzin  stood  erect  for  an  instant, 
and  then  both  wings  of  the  little  bird  were 
stretched  straight  back,  not  folded,  bird-wise, 
but  dangling  loosely  and  reaching  well  beyond 
the  body.  For  a  considerable  fraction  of  time 
he  leaned  forward.  Then  without  effort,  with- 
out apparent  leap  or  jump  he  dived  straight 
downward,  as  beautifully  as  a  seal,  direct  as  a 
plummet  and  very  swiftly.  There  was  a 
scarcely-noticeable  splash,  and  as  I  gazed  with 
real  awe,  I  watched  the  widening  ripples  which 
undulated  over  the  muddy  water — the  only  trace 
of  the  whereabouts  of  the  young  bird. 

It  seemed  as  if  no  one,  whether  ornithologist, 
evolutionist,  poet  or  philosopher  could  fail  to  be 
profoundly  impressed  at  the  sight  we  had  seen. 
Here  I  was  in  a  very  real,  a  very  modern  boat, 
with  the  honk  of  motor  horns  sounding  from  the 
river  road  a  few  yards  away  through  the  bushes, 
in  the  shade  of  this  tropical  vegetation  in  the 
year  nineteen  hundred  and  sixteen;  and  yet  the 
curtain  of  the  past  had  been  lifted  and  I  had 
been  permitted  a  glimpse  of  what  must  have 
been  common  in  the  millions  of  years  ago.  It 


HOATZINS  AT  HOME  137 

was  a  tremendous  thing,  a  wonderful  thing  to 
have  seen,  and  it  seemed  to  dwarf  all  the  strange 
sights  which  had  come  to  me  in  all  other  parts 
of  the  earth's  wilderness.  I  had  read  of  these 
habits  and  had  expected  them,  but  like  one's 
first  sight  of  a  volcano  in  eruption,  no  reading 
Or  description  prepares  one  for  the  actual  phe- 
nomenon. 

I  sat  silently  watching  for  the  re-appearance 
of  the  young  bird.  We  tallied  five  pairs  of  eyes 
and  yet  many  minutes  passed  before  I  saw  the 
same  little  head  and  emaciated  neck  sticking  out 
of  the  water  alongside  a  bit  of  drift  rubbish. 
The  only  visible  thing  was  the  protruding  spikes 
of  the  bedraggled  tail  feathers.  I  worked  the 
boat  in  toward  the  bird,  half-heartedly,  for  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  that  this  particular  brave 
little  bit  of  atavism  deserved  his  freedom,  so 
splendidly  had  he  fought  for  it  among  the 
pimplers.  Soon  he  ducked  forward,  dived  out 
of  sight  and  came  up  twenty  feet  away  among 
an  inextricable  tangle  of  vines.  I  sent  a  little 
cheer  of  well  wishing  after  him  and  we  salvaged 
Sam. 

Then  we  shoved  out  the  boat  and  watched 
from  a  distance.  Five  or  six  minutes  passed 


138  JUNGLE  PEACE 

and  a  skinny,  crooked,  two-fingered  mitten  of 
an  arm  reared  upward  out  of  the  muddy  flood 
and  the  nestling,  black  and  glistening,  hauled 
itself  out  of  water. 

Thus  must  the  first  amphibian  have  climbed 
into  the  thin  air.  But  the  young  hoatzin  neither 
gasped  nor  shivered,  and  seemed  as  self-pos- 
sessed as  if  this  was  a  common  occurrence  in 
its  life.  There  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  how- 
ever, that  this  was  its  first  introduction  to  water. 
Yet  it  had  dived  from  a  height  of  fifteen  feet, 
about  fifty  times  its  own  length,  as  cleanly  as 
a  seal  leaps  from  a  berg.  It  was  as  if  a  human 
child  should  dive  two  hundred  feet! 

In  fifteen  minutes  more  it  had  climbed  high 
above  the  water,  and  with  unerring  accuracy 
directly  toward  its  natal  bundle  of  sticks  over- 
head. The  mother  now  came  close,  and  with 
hoarse  rasping  notes  and  frantic  heaves  of  tail 
and  wings  lent  encouragement.  Just  before  we 
paddled  from  sight,  when  the  little  fellow  had 
reached  his  last  rung,  he  partly  opened  his  beak 
and  gave  a  little  falsetto  cry, — a  clear,  high 
tone,  tailing  off  into  a  guttural  rasp.  His  splen- 
did courage  had  broken  at  last;  he  had  nearly 
reached  the  nest  and  he  was  aching  to  put  aside 


HOATZINS  AT  HOME  139 

all  this  terrible  responsibility,  this  pitting  of 
his  tiny  might  against  such  fearful  odds.  He 
wanted  to  be  a  helpless  nestling  again,  to  crouch 
on  the  springy  bed  of  twigs  with  a  feather  com- 
forter over  him  and  be  stuffed  at  will  with  de- 
lectable pimpler  pap.  Such  is  the  normal  right 
destiny  of  a  hoatzin  chick,  and  the  whee-og! 
wrung  from  him  by  the  reaction  of  safety 
seemed  to  voice  all  this. 


VII 
A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY 

ROBINSON  CRUSOE  had  a  wreck  well  stored 
with  supplies,  and  we  inherited  only  four  walls 
and  a  roof.  Still,  we  had  a  boy  Friday — Sam, 
an  ebony  Demeraran,  exactly  half  of  whose 
teeth  had  been  lost  in  the  only  automobile  ride 
he  had  ever  taken.  Sam  was  sent  by  some  per- 
sonal Providence — perhaps  the  god  of  intelli- 
gence bureaus — as  the  first  of  our  faithful  fol- 
lowing in  Guiana.  Sam  had  formerly  been  a 
warden  in  the  Georgetown  jail,  and  rumor  had 
it  that  he  left  because  he  saw  "jumbies"  in  the 
court  where  one  hundred  and  nine  men  had  been 
hung.  And  surely  that  was  where  jumbies 
would  be  found  if  anywhere.  Even  Crusoe's 
man  must  have  admitted  that.  How  wardenship 
could  be  of  aid  to  us  in  our  scientific  work  was 
a  puzzle. 

Only  once  before  did  a  servant's  previous 
experience  surpass  this  in  utter  uselessness. 

140 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          141 

That  was  when  a  Russian  chauffeur  whom  I  had 
taken  on  trial  found  a  cowboy  saddle  in  my  attic 
and  seriously  and  proudly  showed  me  in  great 
detail,  with  the  saddle  strapped  to  the  banisters, 
how  with  his  long  Cossack  training  he  could 
stand  on  his  neck  when  going  at  full  speed! 
But  Sam,  like  many  another  servant  of  the  past, 
was  to  prove  a  treasure. 

We  had  come  from  New  York  with  a  very 
distinct  idea  of  what  we  wanted  to  do,  but  no 
idea  at  all  of  just  how  or  where  we  should 
begin.  On  kindly  but  conflicting  advice  and 
suggestion,  we  had  searched  hither  and  thither 
over  the  coastlands  of  British  Guiana.  Every- 
where we  found  drawbacks.  We  wanted  to  be 
near  primeval  jungle,  we  wished  to  be  free 
of  mosquitoes  and  other  disturbers  of  long- 
continued  observation.  We  desired  the  seem- 
ingly impossible  combination  of  isolation  and 
facility  of  communication  with  the  outside  world. 

In  a  driving,  tropical  rainstorm  I  ascended 
the  Essequibo  to  Bartica,  and  from  the  hills,  as 
the  sun  broke  through  gray  clouds,  my  friend 
the  rubber  planter  pointed  over  two  jungle-clad 
ranges  to  a  great  house,  a  house  with  many  pil- 
lars, a  house  with  roof  of  pale  .pink  like  a  giant 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

mora  in  full  bloom.  Then,  like  the  good  fairy 
prince  in  a  well-regulated  tale,  he  waved  his 
wand  toward  it,  and  said,  "  That  is  Kalacoon ; 
take  it  and  use  it  if  you  want  it."  Only  his 
wand  was  a  stout  walking-stick,  and  for  the 
nonce  the  fairy  prince  had  taken  the  form  of  a 
tall,  bronzed,  very  good-looking  Englishman, 
who  had  carved  a  rubber  plantation  out  of  the 
very  edge  of  the  jungle,  and  with  wife  and 
small  daughter  lived  in  the  midst  of  his  clean- 
barked  trees. 

And  now  we  had  had  a  gift  of  a  great  house 
in  the  heart  of  the  Guiana  wilderness,  a  house 
built  many  years  before  by  one  who  was  Pro- 
tector of  the  Indians.  This  we  were  to  turn 
into  a  home  and  a  laboratory  to  study  the  wild 
things  about  us — birds,  animals,  and  insects;  not 
to  collect  them  primarily,  but  to  photograph, 
sketch,  and  watch  them  day  after  day,  learning 
of  those  characters  and  habits  which  cannot  be 
transported  to  a  museum.  And  exactly  this  had 
not  been  done  before;  hence  it  took  on  new 
fascination. 

I  had  never  given  serious  thought  to  the  de- 
tails of  housekeeping,  and  I  suddenly  realized 
how  much  for  granted  one  takes  things  in  civi- 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          143 

lization.  In  New  York  I  had  possessed  beds 
and  baths  and  tables,  dishes  and  cooks  and 
towels,  in  a  spirit  of  subconsciousness  which 
made  one  think  of  them  only  if  they  were  not 
there.  Now  I  had  suddenly  to  think  about 
all  these  and  other  things  particularly  hard.  If 
it  had  been  the  usual  camping  duffle  of  ham- 
mock, net,  tarpaulin,  and  frying-pan,  that  would 
have  been  simple.  But  when  the  sugar-bowl  is 
empty,  one  becomes  at  once  acutely  conscious  of 
it;  if  it  is  not,  while  the  hand  unbidden  manipu- 
lates the  tongs,  the  brain  distils  or  listens  to 
thoughts  of  opera,  science,  or  war.  Optical 
eclipse,  impelled  by  familiarity,  is  often  total. 
However,  we  found  the  Georgetown  stores  well 
stocked,  and  whenever  we  purchased  a  useless 
thing  we  found  that  it  could  be  used  for  some- 
thing else.  And  sooner  or  later,  everything  we 
possessed  was  used  for  something  else,  thereby 
moving  one  of  us  to  suggest  a  society  for  reduc- 
ing household  articles  by  half. 

But  while  it  was  well  enough  to  make  a  lark 
of  such  things  when  one  had  to,  we  begrudged 
every  minute  taken  from  the  new  field  outspread 
before  us  in  every  direction.  For  Kalacoon  was 
on  a  hilltop  and  looked  out  on  the  northern  third 


144  JUNGLE  PEACE 

of  the  horizon  over  the  expanse  of  three  mighty 
rivers — the  Essequibo,  the  Mazaruni,  and  the 
Cuyuni.  And  around  us  was  high  second 
growth,  losing  itself  to  the  southward  in  a  gi- 
gantic, abrupt  wall  of  the  real  jungle — the 
jungle  that  I  knew  by  experience  was  more 
wonderful  than  any  of  the  forests  of  the  Far 
East,  of  Burma  or  Ceylon  or  Malaysia. 

We  sat  down  on  some  packing-boxes  after 
our  first  day  of  indoor  labor,  and  watched  the 
sun  settle  slowly  beyond  the  silvered  Mazaruni. 
And  a  song,  not  of  the  tropics,  but  bubbling  and 
clear  and  jubilant  as  that  of  our  northern  sing- 
ers, rang  out  from  the  single  tall  palm  standing 
in  our  front  compound.  Clinging  to  the  top- 
most frond  was  an  oriole,  jet  as  night,  with 
the  gold  of  sunshine  on  crown  and  shoulders 
and  back.  He  was  singing.  While  he  sang,  a 
second  oriole  swooped  upward  between  two 
vanes  of  a  frond  to  a  small  ball  of  fibers  knotted 
close  to  the  midrib.  The  event  had  come  and  it 
developed  swiftly. 

We  seized  a  great  ladder  and  by  superhuman 
efforts  raised  it  little  by  little,  until  it  rested 
high  against  the  smooth  trunk.  One  of  us  then 
mounted  the  swaying  rungs,  reckless  with  ex- 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          145 

citement,  and  thrust  his  hand  into  the  nest.  It 
was  withdrawn  and  went  to  his  mouth,  and 
down  he  came.  To  our  impatient,  impolite 
inquiries,  he  answered  only  with  inarticulate 
mumblings  and  grunts.  He  reached  the  ground 
and  into  his  pursed  hands  carefully  regurgitated 
an  egg — white,  with  clustered  markings  of  lav- 
ender and  sepia  about  the  larger  end.  We 
looked  at  each  other  and  grinned.  Words 
seemed  superfluous.  Later  I  believe  we  quieted 
down  and  danced  some  kind  of  a  war-dance. 
Our  feelings  had  then  reached  the  stage  where 
they  could  at  least  be  expressed  in  action.  Per- 
haps it  was  not  altogether  the  scientific  joy  of 
gazing  at  and  possessing  the  first  known  egg  of 
the  moriche  oriole.  I  know  that  by  sheer  per- 
versity I  kept  thinking  of  the  narrow-gauge 
canyon  of  a  city  street,  as  I  gloried  in  this 
cosmic  openness  of  tropical  river  and  jungle 
and  sunset.  Only  in  an  aeroplane  have  I 
experienced  an  equal  spatial  elation. 

Our  bird-nester  told  us  that  there  was  a  second 
egg,  and  said  something  about  not  daring  to 
put  two  in  his  mouth  lest  he  slip  and  swallow 
both.  But  later,  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  he 
admitted  the  real  reason, — that  he  had  not  the 


146  JUNGLE  PEACE 

heart,  after  the  glorious  song  and  this  splendid 
omen  of  our  work,  to  do  more  than  divide  the 
spoils  fifty-fifty  with  the  orioles.  Self-control 
was  rewarded,  as  the  other  egg  hatched  and  we 
learned  a  secret  of  the  juvenile  plumage  of  these 
birds,  while  the  songs  of  the  cadouries,  as  the 
Indians  call  them,  were  heard  month  after  month 
at  our  windows. 

When  the  idea  of  a  tropical  research  station 
occurred  to  me,  the  first  person  with  whom  I 
discussed  the  matter  was  Colonel  Roosevelt.  In 
all  of  my  scientific  undertakings  under  the  aus- 
pices of  the  New  York  Zoological  Society,  I 
have  found  his  attitude  always  one  of  whole- 
souled  sympathy,  checked  and  practicalized  by 
trenchant  criticism  and  advice.  For  Colonel 
Roosevelt,  besides  his  other  abilities  and  inter- 
ests, is  one  of  the  best  of  our  American  natural- 
ists. To  a  solid  foundation  of  scientific  knowl- 
edge, gained  direct  from  literature,  he  adds  one 
of  the  widest  and  keenest  of  experiences  in  the 
field.  His  published  work  is  always  based  on  a 
utilization  of  the  two  sources,  and  is  character- 
ized by  a  commendable  restraint  and  the  leaven 
of  a  philosophy  which  combines  an  unalterable 
adhesion  to  facts,  with  moderation  of  theory 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          147 

and  an  unhesitating  use  of  the  three  words 
which  should  be  ready  for  instant  use  in  the 
vocabulary  of  every  honest  scientist,  "  I  don't 
know." 

My  object  in  founding  the  research  station 
was  to  destroy  the  bogie  of  danger  and  difficulty 
supposed  to  attend  all  tropical  investigation, 
and  to  show  that  scientists  from  north  temperate 
regions  could  accomplish  keen,  intensive,  pro- 
tracted scientific  work  in  tropical  jungles  with- 
out injury  to  health  or  detriment  to  the  facility 
of  mental  activity,  and  at  extremely  moderate 
expense.  This  will  open  to  direct  personal 
investigation,  regions  which,  more  than  any 
others,  promise  dynamic  results  from  evolu- 
tional study,  and  will  supplement  the  work  of 
museums  with  correlated  researches  upon  living 
and  freshly  killed  organisms.  This  was  a  "  pro- 
gressive "  doctrine  which  Colonel  Roosevelt  en- 
dorsed with  enthusiasm,  and  after  we  had 
brought  semblance  of  a  comfortable  American 
home  to  great,  rambling  Kalacoon,  we  were  able 
to  welcome  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Roosevelt  as  the 
first  visitors  to  the  actual  accomplishment  of  the 
project  which  months  before,  we  had  so  enthu- 
siastically discussed  at  Oyster  Bay. 


148  JUNGLE  PEACE 

The  jungles  of  South  America  were  no  nov- 
elty to  Colonel  Roosevelt,  but  to  be  able  to 
traverse  them  over  smooth,  easy  trails,  in  a  com- 
fortable temperature  and  with  no  annoyance 
of  flies  or  mosquitoes,  was  an  experience  which 
none  of  us  had  enjoyed  before.  To  Mrs. 
Roosevelt  it  was  all  new — the  huge,  buttressed 
trunks,  the  maze  of  lianas  in  tangles,  loops  and 
spirals,  the  sudden  burst  of  pink  or  lavender 
blossoms  in  a  sunlit  spot,  and  the  piercingly 
sweet,  liquid  notes  of  the  goldbird,  "  like  the 
bird  of  Siegfried,"  as  she  aptly  said.  The 
coolie  workmen  in  their  Eastern  garb,  the 
Akawai  Indian  hunters  and  their  tattooed 
squaws  along  the  trail,  all  aroused  that  enthu- 
siasm which  a  second  meeting  can  never  quite 
elicit. 

Most  memorable  to  me  were  the  long  walks 
which  Colonel  Roosevelt  and  I  took  on  the 
Kaburi  Trail,  that  narrow  path  which  is  the 
only  entrance  by  land  to  all  the  great  hinter- 
land lying  between  the  Essequibo  and  Maza- 
runi  Rivers.  Majestically  the  massive  trees  rose 
on  either  side,  so  that  while  our  contracted  aisle 
was  as  lofty  as  the  nave  of  a  cathedral,  yet  it 
was  densely  shaded  by  the  interlocking  foliage 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY    149 

high  overhead.  Our  progress  was  thus  through 
a  glorified  tunnel;  we  traveled  molewise  with 
only  here  and  there  a  glimpse  of  the  sky.  Every 
walk  was  filled  to  the  brim  for  me  with  that 
infinitely  satisfying  joy,  derived  from  frank, 
sympathetic  communion  with  an  enthusiastic, 
true  friend.  I  know  of  no  earthly  pleasure 
more  to  be  desired.  Perhaps  this  is  because 
friends  are  so  rare  with  whom  one  can  be  wholly 
natural,  with  one's  guard  completely  down,  un- 
afraid of  any  misunderstanding — an  omni- 
mental  communion. 

It  was  with  dismay,  at  the  end  of  one  long 
walk,  that  I  realized  we  had  forgotten  to  search 
for  the  tropical  creatures  for  which  we  had 
presumably  set  out.  We  had  kept  the  jungle 
birds  and  animals  well  at  distance  by  a  con- 
stant flow  of  human  speech — argumentative, 
eulogistic,  condemnatory — of  literary  and  field 
and  museum  doings  of  the  scientific  world. 

But  we  did  not  wholly  neglect  the  life  around 
us  and  one  of  the  last  problems  which  we  solved 
that  day  was  that  of  a  small  voice,  one  of  those 
apparently  unattached  sounds  which  come  from 
no  definite  place,  nor  are  referable  to  any  cer- 
tain source.  It  might  have  been  a  cicada  or 


150  JUNGLE  PEACE 

other  insect,  it  could  well  have  come  from  the 
throat  of  a  bird.  Were  we  in  the  heart  of  a 
city  we  should  unhesitatingly  have  pronounced 
it  a  jewsharp  played  very  badly.  We  set  out 
in  search,  we  stalked  it  through  the  thin  under- 
brush, we  scanned  every  branch  with  our  glasses, 
and  when  we  found  it  was  bird  and  not  insect 
we  shamelessly  played  upon  its  feelings  and 
squeaked  after  the  manner  of  a  stricken  nestling. 
We  saw  that  it  was  a  small  flycatcher,  green 
with  waistcoat  of  lemon-yellow.  Finally  after 
we  had  learned  its  fashion  of  flight,  the  stratum 
of  jungle  it  inhabited  and  its  notes,  I  secured 
it.  Not  until  then  did  we  perceive  that  con- 
cealed on  its  head  it  wore  a  glorious  crown  of 
orange  and  gold.  When  my  reference  books 
arrive,  and  we  learn  the  technical  name  of 
this  little  golden-crowned  flycatcher  or  cotinga, 
I  do  not  think  that  this  title  will  persist 
as  vividly  as  the  "  jewsharp  bird  of  Kaburi 
trail." 

Close  to  where  we  walked  on  those  first  days, 
we  were  later  to  find  our  best  hunting.  Dur- 
ing the  next  few  months  all  the  more  interesting 
animals  of  this  part  of  South  America  were  shot 
or  their  presence  noticed;  jaguars,  tapirs,  deer, 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY    151 

peccaries,  howling  monkeys,  vampires,  agoutis, 
jaguarondis,  otters,  sloths,  and  armadillos. 
Hosts  of  birds,  almost  half  the  entire  num- 
ber of  species  found  in  the  Colony,  made 
their  home  hereabouts,  macaws,  bellbirds,  curas- 
sows,  trumpeters,  toucans,  the  great  harpy 
eagle  and  the  tiniest  of  iridescent  humming- 
birds. 

Within  a  week  our  great  front  room,  full 
thirty  by  sixty  feet,  with  sixteen  large  windows, 
was  a  laboratory  in  appearance  and  odor.  Hun- 
dreds of  jars  and  vials,  vivaria  and  insectaries, 
microscopes,  guns,  and  cameras,  with  all  their 
details  and  mysterious  inner  workings,  left  no 
table  vacant.  With  book-shelves  up,  there  re- 
mained only  the  walls,  which  little  by  little 
became  mosaics  of  maps,  diagrams,  sketches, 
drying  skins,  Indian  weapons,  birds'  nests  and 
shot-holes.  Whiffs  of  formaline,  chloroform, 
and  xylol,  together  with  the  odors  of  occasional 
mislaid  or  neglected  specimens,  left  no  doubt 
as  to  the  character  of  the  room.  We  found 
that  the  tradewind  came  from  the  front,  and 
also  that  we  had  much  to  discuss  after  the  lamps 
were  put  out;  so  we  turned  the  couches  into 
their  rightful  functions  of  cots,  and  the  three  of 


152  JUNGLE  PEACE 

us  slept  scattered  here  and  there  in  the  great 
room. 

The  vampire  bats  never  allowed  us  to  become 
bored.  There  were  no  mosquitoes  or  flies,  so 
we  used  no  nets;  but  for  months  we  burned  a 
lantern.  Low  around  our  heads  swept  the  soft 
wings  of  the  little  creatures,  while  the  bat  en- 
thusiast now  and  then  fired  his  auxiliary  pistol. 
Later  we  found  that  a  score  of  them  roosted 
behind  a  broken  clapboard,  and,  by  spreading  a 
seine  below  and  around  this,  we  were  able  to 
capture  and  examine  the  entire  colony  at  will. 
Tarantulas  were  common,  but  not  in  the  least 
offensive,  and  we  learned  to  know  where  to  look 
for  a  big  black  fellow  and  a  small  gray  one  who 
kept  the  room  free  from  cockroaches.  One  or 
two  scorpions  were  caught  indoors,  but  the 
three  centipedes  which  appeared  occasionally 
were  those  which  had  been  brought  in  and  were 
always  escaping  from  a  defective  vivarium. 
There  were  no  other  dangers  or  inconveniences, 
if  we  can  apply  such  terms  to  these  compara- 
tively harmless  creatures. 

This  was  the  background  of  our  labors,  our 
laboratory  as  our  English  visitors  called  it: 
cool  in  the  daytime,  cold  at  night,  where  one 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY    153 

could  work  as  well  as  in  the  north,  and  where 
a  morning's  tramp  usually  furnished  material 
sufficient  for  a  week  of  research.  We  came  to 
know  it  as  the  house  of  a  thousand  noises.  The 
partitions,  like  those  of  all  tropical  houses,  ex- 
tended only  part  way  to  the  ceiling,  so,  as  some 
one  has  said,  one  enjoyed  about  the  privacy  of  a 
goldfish.  It  would  have  been  a  terrible  place 
for  a  victim  of  insomnia ;  but  when  we  were  kept 
awake  by  noises  it  was  because  we  were  inter- 
ested in  them.  After  a  day's  hard  work  in  the 
jungle,  it  must  indeed  be  a  bad  conscience  or  a 
serious  physical  ailment  which  keeps  one  awake 
a  minute  after  one  rolls  up  in  his  blanket. 
Through  all  the  months  of  varying  tropical  sea- 
sons we  slept  as  soundly  as  we  should  at  home. 
I  can  do  with  five  or  six  hours'  sleep  the  year 
round,  and  I  begrudged  even  this  in  the  tropical 
wonderland,  where  my  utmost  efforts  seemed 
to  result  in  such  slight  inroads  into  our  tre- 
mendous zoological  ignorance.  At  night  I  spent 
many  wonderful  hours,  leaning  first  out  of  one, 
then  out  of  another  window,  or  occasionally 
going  down  the  outside  lattice  stairway  and 
strolling  about  the  compound. 

No  two  nights  were  alike,  although  almost 


154?  JUNGLE  PEACE 

all  were  peaceful,  with  hardly  a  breath  of  air 
stirring — just  the  cool,  velvet  touch  of  the 
tropics,  always  free  from  any  trace  of  the  heat 
of  the  day.  Whether  dark  rich  olive  under  cres- 
cent or  starlight,  or  glowing  silvery-gray  in  the 
flood  of  the  full  moon,  the  forest,  so  quiet,  so 
motionless  all  about  me,  was  always  mysterious, 
always  alluring.  To  the  north,  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  lay  the  dark  surface  of  the  great  river, 
its  waters  one  amber,  homogeneous  flood,  yet 
drawn  from  a  thousand  tributaries:  hidden 
creeks  seeping  through  mossy  jungles  far  be- 
yond the  Spanish  border,  brown  cascades  filter- 
ing through  gravel  which  gleamed  with  yellow 
gold  and  sparkled  with  the  light  from  uncut  dia- 
monds. And  to  the  south  rose  the  wall  of  the 
jungle  itself,  symbol  of  all  that  is  wild  and 
untamed  in  nature. 

Yet  I  am  never  conscious  of  the  bloody  fang, 
the  poison  tooth,  of  the  wilderness.  The  peace 
of  this  jungle  at  night  was  the  same  peace  as 
that  of  the  trees  in  our  city  parks.  I  knew  that 
well  within  my  horizon,  jaguars  and  pumas  were 
stalking  their  prey,  while  here  and  there  on  the 
forest  floor  bushmasters  lay  coiled  like  mats  of 
death.  But  quite  as  vividly  could  I  picture 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY    155 

the  stray  cats  pouncing  on  sleeping  sparrows  in 
the  shrubbery  of  Washington  Square,  or  the 
screech  owls  working  havoc  in  the  glades  of 
Central  Park  where  the  glare  of  the  electric 
lights  is  less  violent.  And  I  have  not  forgotten 
the  two-score  gulls  and  swans  with  torn  throats 
— a  single  night's  work  of  wild  mink  in  the 
Bronx.  Nature  is  the  same  everywhere;  only 
here  the  sparrows  are  not  alien  immigrants,  and 
the  light  is  not  measured  in  kilowatts,  and  the 
hacka  tigers  are  not  so  sated  that  they  kill  for 
pleasure. 

A  sound  broke  in  upon  my  reverie,  so  low  at 
first  that  it  seemed  but  the  droning  hum  of  a 
beetle's  wing  echoing  against  the  hollow  shield  of 
their  ebony  cases.  It  was  deep,  soothing,  almost 
hypnotic;  one  did  not  want  it  to  cease.  Then  it 
gained  in  volume  and  depth,  and  from  the  heart 
of  the  bass  there  arose  a  terrible,  subdued  shrill- 
ing— a  muffled,  raucous  grating  which  touched 
some  secret  chord  of  long-past  fear.  The  whole 
effect  was  most  terrifying,  but  still  one  did  not 
desire  it  to  cease.  In  itself  it  seemed  wholly 
suited  to  its  present  jungle  setting;  the  emotion 
it  aroused  was  alien  to  all  modern  life.  My 
mind  sped  swiftly  back  over  the  intervening 


156  JUNGLE  PEACE 

years  of  sound,  over  the  jeering  chorus  of 
Malay  gibbons,  the  roars  of  anger  of  orang- 
utans, four-handing  themselves  through  the 
swaying  Bornean  jungle,  and  on  past  the  im- 
pudent chatter  of  the  gray  langurs  of  Kashmir 
deodars.  Memory  came  to  rest  in  a  tent-boat, 
seven  years  ago  and  not  many  more  miles  dis- 
tant, when  I  heard  my  first  red  howlers.  Then  I 
shared  my  thrill.  Now  all  with  me  were  asleep, 
and  alone  I  reached  far  out  into  the  night  and 
with  mouth  and  ears  absorbed  every  vibration  of 
the  wonderful  chorus. 

In  spite  of  all  this  variety  and  immeasurable 
diversity,  I  came  to  perceive  a  definite  sequence 
of  many  daily  and  nightly  events,  as  I  ob- 
served them  from  Kalacoon  windows.  Not  only 
did  the  sun  rise  invariably  in  the  east  and  the 
tradewinds  blow  regularly  every  afternoon,  but 
a  multitude  of  organic  beings  timed  their  activi- 
ties to  these  elemental  phenomena.  At  half 
after  five,  when  it  was  just  light  enough  to 
see  distinctly,  I  went  out  into  the  calm  dawn. 
The  quiet  of  the  great  spaces  at  this  hour  was 
absolute.  No  matter  how  tempestuous  the  eve- 
ning before  or  the  night,  the  hours  of  early 
morning  were  peaceful.  Not  a  leaf  stirred. 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          157 

The  tide  flowed  silently  up  or  down  or  for  a 
time  held  itself  motionless.  At  the  flood  the 
mirror  surface  would  occasionally  be  shattered 
for  a  moment  far  from  shore,  where  a  porpoise 
or  a  great  lucannani  rolled,  or  a  crocodile  or  a 
water  mama  nosed  for  breath.  The  calm  was 
invariable,  but  the  air  might  be  crystal  clear  to 
the  horizon,  or  so  drenched  in  mist  that  the 
nearest  foliage  was  invisible. 

No  matter  how  early  I  went  out  into  the 
dawn,  the  wrens  were  always  singing — though 
they  were  recent  arrivals  at  Kalacoon.  Then, 
within  a  few  minutes,  the  chachalacas  began 
their  loud  duets,  answering  one  another  in  cou- 
ples from  first  one,  then  another  direction, 
until  the  air  was  ringing  with  hanaqua!  hanaqual 
hanaqua!  Dragonflies  appeared  in  mid-air, 
martins  left  their  nests  among  the  beams,  parra- 
keets  crossed  over  from  their  roosts,  and  swifts 
met  them  coming  from  their  sleeping  quarters  in 
hollow  trees.  The  quaint  little  grassquits  began 
their  absurd  dance  against  gravity,  and  blatant 
kiskadees  ushered  in  the  sun  and  day. 

Then  came  an  interval  when  every  one  was 
too  busy  feeding  to  sing,  and  the  wren's  notes 
were  hushed  by  an  astounding  succession  of 


158  JUNGLE  PEACE 

tiny  spiders,  and  the  chirps  of  young  martins 
were  smothered  in  winged  ants.  Swiftly  the 
sun  rose  and  the  heat  dissipated  the  mists  and 
lured  out  a  host  of  flying  things.  Even  at  mid- 
day one  might  sit  at  a  window  and  take  notes 
continuously  of  lesser  happenings,  while  now 
and  then  something  of  such  note  occurred  that 
one  could  only  watch  and  wonder.  This  might 
be  a  migration  of  sulphur  butterflies,  thousands 
flying  steadily  toward  the  southeast  hour  after 
hour,  day  after  day.  Or  a  host  of  humming- 
birds of  nearly  a  score  of  species  would  descend 
upon  the  cashew  blossoms  in  the  rear  compound. 
Most  exciting  was  a  flight  of  winged  termites. 
In  the  rainy  season  the  clouds  would  bank  up 
about  mid-day,  and  showers  fall  with  true  tropi- 
cal violence.  After  an  exceptionally  long  down- 
pour the  marriage  flight  would  take  place  and 
logs,  dead  branches,  and  even  the  steps  and 
beams  of  Kalacoon  would  give  up  their  multi- 
tudes. From  great  rotted  stumps  the  insects 
poured  forth  like  curling  smoke.  The  breeze 
carried  them  slowly  off  toward  the  west,  and 
at  the  first  hint  the  birds  gathered  to  the  feast. 
Only  Rangoon  vultures  surpassed  them  in 
numbers  and  voracity.  The  air  was  fretted  with 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY    159 

a  kaleidoscopic  network  of  swifts — from  great, 
collared  fellows  to  the  tiny  dwellers  in  palms — 
with  swallows,  martins,  and,  if  late  enough, 
nighthawks.  Fork-tailed  flycatchers  swept  by 
scores  round  the  vortex  of  insects,  while  a  flut- 
tering host  of  kiskadees,  tanagers,  anis,  thrushes, 
and  wrens  gleaned  as  best  they  could  from 
grass-top  or  branch.  In  ten  minutes  the  whole 
flight  had  vanished.  Any  queen  termite  which 
ran  that  gauntlet  safely,  deserved  to  found  her 
colony  without  further  molestation. 

Although  I  might  have  stalked  and  watched 
the  white  campaneros  for  a  week  past,  yet  when- 
ever there  came  to  ear  the  anvil-like  kong!  kang! 
or  the  ringing,  sonorous  kaaaaaaaaaaang!  of  a 
bell-bird  three  miles  away,  I  always  stopped 
work  and  became  one  great  ear  to  this  jungle 
angelus. 

One  could  watch  the  changing  seasons  of  the 
great  tropical  jungle  from  the  same  wonder 
windows  of  Kalacoon.  A  dull  rose  suffused  the 
tree-tops,  deepening  day  by  day,  and  finally  the 
green  appeared,  picked  out  everywhere  by  a 
myriad  blossoms — magenta,  mauve,  maroon,  car- 
mine, rose,  salmon-pink.  Yet  the  glass  showed 
only  top-gallant  foliage  of  wilted,  parti-colored 


160  JUNGLE  PEACE 

leaves.  Illusion  upon  illusion:  these  were  not 
wilted,  but  newborn  leaves  which  thus  in  their 
spring  glory  rivaled  our  autumnal  tints.  One 
never  forgot  the  day  when  the  first  mora  burst 
into  full  bloom — a  great  mound  of  lavender  pig- 
ment, swung  nearly  two  hundred  feet  in  mid- 
air, dominating  all  the  surrounding  jungle 
growth.  This  was  the  lush,  prodigal  way  in 
which  the  tropics  announced  spring. 

Whether  I  had  spent  the  day  in  hard  tramp- 
ing or  stalking  in  the  jungle,  or  at  my  labora- 
tory table  trying  to  disentangle  the  whys  and 
wherefores  from  the  physical  skein  of  my  speci- 
mens, toward  sunset  I  always  went  down  to 
the  cement  floor  of  an  orchid-house  long  fallen 
in  decay.  This  was  under  the  open  sky,  and 
from  this  spot  on  the  highest  hilltop  in  all  this 
region,  I  watched  the  end  of  the  day. 

No  sunset  should  ever  be  described,  and  the 
Kalacoon  sunsets  were  too  wonderful  for  aught 
but  wordless  reverence.  They  were  explosions 
of  wild  glory,  palettefuls  of  unheard-of  pig- 
ments splashed  across  the  sky,  and  most  be- 
wildering because  they  were  chiefly  in  the  east 
or  north.  This  evening  on  which  I  write  was 
sealed  with  a  sunset  of  negligible  yellow,  but 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          161 

the  east  was  a  splendor  of  forest  fires  and 
minarets,  great  golden  castles  and  pale-green 
dragons  and  snow-capped  mountains  all  con- 
ceived and  molded  from  glorious  tumbled  cloud- 
masses,  and  ultimately  melting  back  into  them 
again.  The  moriche  orioles  met  the  beauty  of 
the  heavens  with  their  silver  notes,  and  as  the 
sky  cooled,  there  arose  the  sweet,  trilled  cadence 
of  the  little  tinamou  heralding  the  voices  of 
night.  The  silvery  collared  nighthawks  began 
their  eternal  questioning  who-are-you!  who-are- 
youl  and  the  coolness  banished  all  thought  of 
the  blistering  sunshine  now  pouring  down  upon 
the  waters  of  the  Pacific. 

Not  until  later,  when  the  night-life  was  fairly 
under  way,  and  all  the  beings  of  the  sun  hidden 
and  asleep,  did  the  deep  bass  rumble  of  the  big 
toads  commence,  and  the  tinkling  chorus  of  the 
little  frogs.  Last  of  all  came  the  essence  of  the 
nocturnal — the  sound  furthest  removed  from 
day.  All  other  voices  seemed  to  become  for  an 
instant  hushed,  and  the  poor-me-one  spoke — a 
wail  which  rose,  trembled,  and  broke  into  a 
.falling  cadence  of  hopeless  sighs. 

And  now,  with  the  crescent  moon  writing  its 
heliograph  cipher  upon  the  water,  a  new  sound 


162  JUNGLE  PEACE 

arose,  low  and  indistinct,  lost  for  a  moment, 
then  rising  and  lost  again.  Then  it  rang  out 
rich  and  harmonious,  the  full-throated  paddling 
chanty  of  a  gold-boat  of  blacks  coming  down 
river  with  their  tiny  pokes  of  glittering  dust.  It 
tore  at  the  heart-strings  of  memory,  and  in  its 
wildness,  its  sad  minor  strain,  was  strangely 
moving.  The  steersman  set  the  words  and  in 
high,  quavering  tones  led  the  chorus,  which  broke 
in,  took  up  the  phrase,  different  each  time,  and 
repeated  it  twice  over,  with  a  sweet  pathos,  a 
finality  of  cadence  which  no  trained  white  chorus 
could  reproduce. 

There  was  much  of  savage  African  rhythm  in 
these  boat-songs,  and  instead  of  the  drum  of  the 
Zulus  came  the  regular  thump-thump,  thump- 
thump,  of  paddles  on  the  thwarts.  They  were 
paddling  slowly,  weary  and  tired  after  a  long 
day  of  portaging,  passing  with  the  tide  down  to 
Bartica.  Then  on  to  a  short,  exciting  period  of 
affluence  in  Georgetown,  after  which  they  would 
return  for  another  six  months  in  the  gold  bush. 
They  were  realizing  their  little  El  Dorados  in 
these  very  waters  more  successfully  than  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  was  able  to  do. 

I  have  said  that  the  wonder  windows  would 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY    163 

take  one  to  the  Far  East;  and  hardly  had  the 
gold-boat  passed  out  of  hearing  when  the  never- 
to-be-forgotten  beat-beat-beat-beat  of  a  tom-tom 
rose  without  hint  or  introduction,  and  straight- 
way the  cecropias  became  deodars  and  the  palms 
dwarfed  to  pipuls  and  sal.,  and  the  smells  of  the 
Calcutta  bazaars  and  the  dust  of  Agra  caravans 
lived  again  in  that  sound. 

A  voice  in  soft  Hindustani  tones  was  heard 
below — the  low,  inarticulate  phrases  framing 
themselves  into  a  gentle  honk-honka,  honk,  honk- 
honka.  Then,  still  out  of  sight,  came  a  voice 
on  the  stairway:  "  Salaam,  sahib,  will  sahib  come 
see  dance  and  see  wedding?  " 

The  sahib  would ;  and  I  followed  the  wavering 
lantern  of  the  bride's  father  down  the  steep, 
rocky  path  which,  at  the  water's  edge,  turned 
toward  the  half-dozen  huts  of  the  East  Indians. 

For  a  week  the  coolie  women  had  done  no 
work  in  the  fields,  but  had  spent  much  of  their 
time  squatted  in  chanting  circles.  I  learned 
that  a  marriage  was  to  take  place,  and,  to  my 
surprise,  the  bride  proved  to  be  Budhany,  the 
little  child  who  brought  us  milk  each  day  from 
the  only  cow  south  of  the  Mazaruni.  Another 
clay,  as  I  passed  to  the  tent-boat,  I  saw  the 


164  JUNGLE  PEACE 

groom,  naked  save  for  his  breech-clout,  looking 
very  foolish  and  unhappy,  seated  on  a  box  in  the 
center  of  the  one  short  street,  and  surrounded  by 
six  or  eight  women,  all  who  could  reach  him 
vigorously  slapping  him  and  rubbing  him  with 
oil  from  head  to  foot.  Every  evening,  to  the 
dull  monotone  of  a  tom-tom,  the  shrill  voices  of 
the  women  were  carried  up  to  Kalacoon;  but 
tonight  a  louder,  more  sonorous  drum  was  audi- 
ble and  the  moaning  whine  of  a  short,  misshapen 
Hindi  violin. 

Amid  a  murmur  of  salaams  we  seated  our- 
selves on  grocery  boxes  while  the  audience 
ranged  itself  behind.  In  the  flickering  light  of 
torches  I  recognized  my  friends  one  by  one. 
There  was  Guiadeen  who  had  brought  in  the  first 
ant-eater;  he  seated  us.  Then  Persaid  of  the 
prominent  teeth,  who  had  tried  to  cheat  me  of  a 
sixpence  already  paid  for  a  mouse-opossum  with 
her  young.  Persaid  gave  us  only  a  hasty 
salaam,  for  he  was  a  very  busy  and  fussy  master 
of  ceremonies.  From  behind  came  the  constant 
droning  chant  of  the  priest,  lingeringly  reading 
from  a  tattered  Pali  volume,  an  oil  torch  drip- 
ping close  to  his  white  turban.  His  voice  was 
cracked,  but  his  intonation  was  careful  and  his 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY    165 

words  well  articulated.  The  day  before  we  had 
greeted  him  and  chaffingly  admonished  him  to 
marry  them  well. 

"God  only  could  promise  that,"  he  had  re- 
plied with  a  quick  smile. 

Others  of  the  little  village  I  knew:  Rahim  the 
milkman,  and  Mahabol,  with  the  head  and  beard 
of  a  Sikh  on  the  legs  of  a  Bengalee,  and  a  thin 
Bengalee  at  that.  The  audience  which  pressed 
close  behind,  looked  and  smelled  Calcutta  and 
Darjeeling,  and  a  homesickness  which  was  pain 
came  over  me,  to  be  once  more  among  the  great 
Himalayas.  The  flickering  torch  showed  all  my 
retinue  threaded  along  the  outer  rim  of  onlook- 
ers; my  following  who  formed  a  veritable  racial 
tower  of  Babel.  There  was  Nupee  the  Aka- 
wai,  and  Vingi  the  Machusi  and  Semmi  the 
Wapiano — red  Indians  from  forest  and  savan- 
nah. Near  them  the  broad,  black  African  face 
of  little  Mame,  all  eyes  and  mouth  in  the  dim 
light.  Then  de  Freitas  the  Portuguese,  and  all 
the  others  of  less  certain  lineage. 

Meanwhile  Persai'd  had  brought  forth  an  oily, 
vile-smelling  liquid  with  which  he  coated  a 
square  yard  of  earth,  and  then  with  pounded 
maize  and  rice  he  marked  out  a  mystic  figure — 


166  JUNGLE  PEACE 

two  squares  and  diagonals.  As  the  ceremony 
went  on  I  lost  much  of  the  significance,  and  the 
coolies  themselves  seemed  very  vague.  They 
were  all  of  low  caste  and  preserved  more  of  the 
form  than  knowledge  of  the  intricate  rites. 

We  were  at  the  groom's  end  of  the  absurd 
street,  and  before  long  Madhoo  himself  ap- 
peared and  was  led  a  few  steps  away  by  his 
female  tormentors.  This  time  they  scrubbed 
and  washed  and  rinsed  him  with  water,  and  then 
dressed  him  in  a  soft  white  waist-cloth  draped 
coolie-wise.  Then  a  long  tight-sleeved  pink 
dress  was  pulled  with  much  difficulty  over  his 
head.  Madhoo  now  looked  like  a  woman  dressed 
in  a  fashion  long  extinct.  Next,  a  pink  turban 
was  wound  wonderfully  about  his  head  and 
he  was  led  to  one  side  of  the  rice  figure,  where 
he  sat  down  on  a  low  stool. 

Sam,  my  black  factotum,  sat  close  to  me, 
translating  when  my  slender  knowledge  of  Hin- 
dustani gave  out.  Suddenly  he  stopped  abruptly 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  I  saw  that  he  was 
staring  at  the  groom,  the  whites  of  his  eyes 
glistening  in  astonishment. 

"  Chief,"  he  whispered  at  last,  "  see  where  my 
socksa  my  shoes!  " 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          167 

And  sure  enough,  we  saw  Persai'd  pulling  the 
purple-striped  socks,  which  had  been  Sam's  de- 
light, over  the  unaccustomed  ankles  of  the 
groom.  These  were  followed  by  cheap  white 
tennis  shoes,  causing  another  ejaculation  on  the 
part  of  Sam. 

"  Hello,  shoes!  "  I  heard  him  murmur  to  him- 
self. 

Sam  always  personified  those  parts  of  his 
environment  which  touched  his  feelings  most 
deeply,  whether  clothes,  curries,  thorns,  or  gravi- 
tation. When  unloading  the  tent-boat  a  few 
nights  before,  he  had  left  his  shoes  on  the  bank; 
and  during  a  trip  up  the  hill  to  Kalacoon  they 
had  vanished.  For  a  moment  I  was  not  sure 
that  Sam,  like  the  hero  in  some  melodrama, 
would  not  rise  and  forbid  the  marriage.  Then 
I  heard  him  chuckling  and  knew  that  his  sense 
of  humor  and  regard  for  our  evening's  enter- 
tainment had  nobly  overcome  what  must  have 
been  a  very  real  desire  to  possess  again  those 
gorgeous  articles  of  attire.  And,  besides,  I  felt 
sure  that  the  morrow  would  witness  a  short, 
pithy  interview  regarding  these  same  articles, 
between  Sam  and  either  Madhoo  or  Persai'd. 

Clad   now   in   this   added   glory,   the   groom 


168  JUNGLE  PEACE 

waited,  like  the  tethered  heifer,  looking  furtively 
at  his  circle  of  well-wishers.  His  little,  shriveled 
mother  came  and  squatted  close  behind  him, 
toboggan-fashion,  and  flung  a  fold  of  her  cloth 
over  his  back.  Then  she  waved  various  things 
three  times  over  his  head:  a  stone  grain-crusher, 
a  brass  bowl  of  water,  and  tossed  rice  and  pel- 
lets of  dough  in  the  four  directions.  Red  paint 
was  put  on  her  toes  and  feet  and  caste  marks  on 
her  son. 

Meanwhile  the  dancer  had  begun  and  his 
musicians  were  in  full  swing;  but  of  these  I 
shall  speak  later.  The  groom  was  backed  into 
an  elaborate  head-dress,  a  high,  open-work  affair 
of  long  wired  beads  with  dangling  artificial 
flowers.  First  it  was  placed  on  the  mother's 
head  and  then  on  the  turban  of  the  long-suffer- 
ing young  man.  An  outflaring  of  torches  and  a 
line  of  white-robed  and  turbaned  coolies  from 
the  other  end  of  the  street  of  six  houses  roused 
the  groom  and  his  friends  to  new  activity.  He 
climbed  upon  one  of  the  men,  straddling  his 
neck,  and  what  appeared  to  be  a  best  man,  or 
boy,  mounted  another  human  steed.  They  were 
then  carried  the  few  feet  to  the  house  of  the 
bride,  the  shiny,  black-rubber  soles  of  the  filched 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          169 

tennis  shoes  sticking  absurdly  out  in  front.  A 
third  man  carried  a  bundle, — very  small,  to 
which  no  one  seemed  to  attach  much  impor- 
tance,— which  was  said  to  contain  clothes  for 
the  bride. 

After  an  undignified  dismounting,  the  groom 
squatted  by  a  new  rice-and-maize  square  and  re- 
moved his  shoes  and  socks,  to  his  own  evident 
relief  and  Sam's  renewed  excitement.  Then 
coppers  passed  to  the  priest  and  many  symbolic 
gifts  were  put  in  the  groom's  hands;  some  of 
these  he  ate,  and  others  he  laid  in  the  square. 
Whenever  money  passed,  it  was  hidden  under 
sweet-smelling  frangipani  blossoms,  or  temple- 
flowers,  as  they  are  called  in  India.  The  bride's 
mother  came  out  and  performed  numerous  rites 
to  and  around  the  groom ;  finally,  a  small  person 
in  white  also  achieved  one  or  two  unimportant 
things  and  disappeared. 

While  we  waited  for  some  culminating  event, 
the  groom  stood  up,  skilfully  lit  a  cigarette 
through  the  meshes  of  the  dangling  head-dress, 
and  walked  with  his  friends  to  the  porch  of  the 
opposite  house,  where  he  squatted  on  the  earthen 
floor  in  the  semi-darkness.  Then  came  Persai'd 
and  announced,  "  Marriage  over;  man  wait  until 


170  JUNGLE  PEACE 

daylight,  then  carry  off  bride  to  honeymoon 
house  "  —the  'dobe  hut  plastered  all  over  with 
the  imprints  of  hundreds  of  white,  outspread 
fingers  and  palms. 

The  marriage  over!  This  was  a  shock.  The 
critical  moment  had  come  and  passed,  eluding 
us,  and  Budhany,  the  little  bride,  had  appeared 
and  vanished  so  hurriedly  that  we  had  not  recog- 
nized her. 

The  dancer  had  throughout  been  the  focus  of 
interest  for  me.  There  was  no  perfunctory 
work  or  slurring  over  of  the  niceties  of  his  part, 
and  his  sincerity  and  absorption  inspired  and 
stimulated  his  four  assistants  until  they  fairly 
lost  themselves  in  abandon  to  the  rhythm  and  the 
chant.  His  name  was  Gokool  and  he  had  come 
up  from  one  of  the  great  coastal  sugar  planta- 
tions. Nowhere  outside  of  India  had  I  seen 
such  conscientious  devotion  to  the  dancer's  work. 

Rammo  the  tent-boat  captain  played  the  creti- 
nous violin;  he  it  was  who  never  tired  of  bring- 
ing us  giant  buprestids  and  rails'  eggs,  and 
whose  reward  was  to  watch  and  listen  to  our 
typewriter  machine  through  all  the  time  that  he 
dared  prolong  his  visit  to  our  laboratory.  Dus- 
rate  played  the  tiny  clinking  cymbals;  Mattora, 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          171 

he  of  the  woman's  voice,  held  the  torch  always 
close  before  the  dancer's  face;  while  the  drum- 
mer— the  most  striking  of  them  all — was  a 
stranger,  Omeer  by  name.  Omeer,  with  the 
double-ended  tom-tom  in  a  neck-sling,  followed 
Gokool  about,  his  eyes  never  leaving  the  latter's 
face.  Little  by  little  he  became  wholly  rapt, 
absorbed,  and  his  face  so  expressive,  so  working 
with  emotion,  that  I  could  watch  nothing  else. 

Gokool  was  a  real  actor,  a  master  of  his  art, 
with  a  voice  deep,  yet  shifting  easily  to  falsetto 
quavers,  and  with  the  controlled  ability  of  em- 
phasizing the  slightest  intonations  and  delicate 
semi-tones  which  made  his  singing  full  of  emo- 
tional power.  He  got  his  little  orchestra  to- 
gether, patting  his  palms  in  the  tempo  he 
wished,  then  broke  suddenly  into  the  wailing, 
dynamic,  abrupt  phrases  which  I  knew  so  well. 
Had  not  my  servants  droned  them  over  my 
camp-fires  from  Kashmir  to  Myitkyina,  and 
itinerant  ballad-singers  chanted  them  from  Cey- 
lon to  the  Great  Snows! 

Gokool's  dress  was  wide  and  his  skirt  flar- 
ing, so  that,  when  he  whirled,  it  stood  straight 
out,  and  it  was  stiff  with  embroidery  and  scin- 
tillating with  tinsel.  From  his  sleek,  black  hair 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

came  perfume,  that  musky,  exciting  scent  which 
alone  would  summon  India  to  mind  as  with  a 
rub  of  Aladdin's  lamp.  His  anklets  and  brace- 
lets clinked  as  he  moved;  and  suddenly,  and  to 
our  Western  senses  always  unexpectedly,  he 
would  begin  the  swaying,  reeling  motion,  almost 
that  of  a  cobra  in  hood.  Then  after  several 
more  phrases,  chanted  with  all  the  fire  and  tem- 
peramental vigor  which  marks  Hindu  music,  he 
would  start  the  rigid  little  muscular  steps  which 
carried  him  over  the  ground  with  no  apparent 
effort,  though  all  the  time  he  was  wholly  tense 
and  working  up  into  that  ecstasy  which  would 
obsess  him  more  and  more.  His  songs  were  of 
love  and  riches  and  war,  and  all  the  things  of 
life  which  can  mean  so  little  to  these  poor 
coolies. 

Exhausted  at  last,  he  stopped;  and  I  found 
that  I  too  suddenly  relaxed — that  I  had  been 
sitting  with  every  muscle  tense  in  sympathy. 
Gokool  came  and  gave  me  a  salaam,  and  as  he 
turned  away  for  a  hand-hollowed  puff  of  hemp 
I  spoke  a  little  word  of  thanks  in  his  own 
tongue. 

He  looked  back,  not  believing  that  he  had 
heard  aright.  I  repeated  it  and  asked  if  he 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY    173 

knew  "  Dar-i-Parhadoor,"  this  being  my  pho- 
netic spelling  of  a  certain  ballad  of  ancient 
India. 

"  Koom,  sahib,"  he  said;  and  kneeling  touched 
my  foot  with  his  head. 

Then  we  talked  as  best  we  could,  and  I  found 
he  was  from  the  Hills,  and  knew  and  adored  the 
Parhadoor,  and  was  even  more  homesick  for  the 
Great  Snows  than  I.  But  once  something  had 
snapped  in  his  head  and  he  could  not  work  in 
the  sun,  and  could  dance  but  rarely;  so  now 
he  earned  money  for  his  daily  rice  only  and 
could  never  return. 

Then  he  gathered  his  musicians  once  more 
and  sang  part  of  the  majestic  Parhadoor,  which 
is  full  of  romance  and  royal  wars,  and  has  much 
to  do  with  the  wonders  of  the  early  Rajputs. 
And  he  sang  more  to  me  than  to  the  groom, 
who  neither  looked  nor  listened,  but  kept  busy 
with  his  clothes. 

Out  of  all  the  pressing  throng  a  little  coolie 
boy  came  and  squatted  close,  and  his  eyes  grew 
large  as  he  listened  to  the  tale,  and  from  time 
to  time  he  smiled  at  me.  He  had  once  brought 
me  a  coral  snake,  but  I  could  not  call  him  by 
name.  Now  I  knew  him  for  the  one  unlike 


174  JUNGLE  PEACE 

the  rest, — worthy  perhaps  of  a  place  in  my 
memory  roll  of  supercoolies, — who  worked  at 
weeding  day  after  day,  like  the  rest  of  the  men, 
but  who  thought  other  thoughts  than  those  of 
Mahabol  and  Guiadeen.  I  wished  I  had  known 
of  him  sooner. 

So  Gokool  sang  to  us  two,  the  coolie  boy  and 
me,  a  song  of  ancient  India,  and  danced  it  by 
moonlight  here  in  this  American  jungle,  and  I 
dotted  his  dancing  circle  with  pence,  and  a  few 
bits,  and  even  a  shilling  or  two.  And  Gokool 
thanked  me  with  dignity.  And  his  face  will 
long  remain  vivid,  tense  with  feeling,  forgetful 
of  all  but  the  loud-cadenced  phrases,  the  quaver- 
ing chant  which  broke  in  and  out  of  falsetto 
so  subtlely  that  no  Western  voice  may  imitate 
it.  And  I  like  to  think  that  he  enjoyed  dancing 
for  a  sahib  who  loved  Lucknow  and  the  old  bal- 
lads. And  so  we  parted. 

After  I  cached  the  vampire  lantern  behind 
its  intrenched  bulwark  of  books  and  magazines, 
I  leaned  far  out  of  a  window  and  thought  over 
the  night's  happenings.  It  was  long  after  mid- 
night, and  the  steady  throb  of  the  tom-tom  still 
kept  rhythm  with  the  beat  of  my  temples,  and 


A  WILDERNESS  LABORATORY          175 

I  gave  myself  up  to  the  lure  of  the  hypnotic 
monotone. 

One  thought  kept  recurring — of  the  little  girl 
far  back  in  the  dark  depths  of  the  wattled  hut. 
She  was  so  little,  so  childish,  and  her  part  that 
evening  had  been  so  slight  and  perfunctory,  not 
as  much  as  that  of  any  of  the  other  women  and 
girls  who  had  slovenly  performed  the  half- 
understood  rites.  She  had  brought  us  milk 
regularly,  and  smiled  when  we  wished  salaam 
to  her. 

She  knew  less  of  India  than  I  did.  Guiana, 
this  alien  land,  as  humid  and  luxuriant  as  the 
Great  Plains  were  dry  and  parched — this  was 
her  native  country.  And  this  evening  was  her 
supreme  moment;  yet  her  part  in  it  had  not 
seemed  fair.  She  would  have  liked  so  much  to 
have  worn  that  pink  dress  which  made  her  fu- 
ture husband  a  caricature;  she  would  have 
adored  to  place  the  shining,  tinseled  head-dress 
on  her  black  hair — more  with  a  child's  delight 
than  a  woman's.  And  now  she  would  live  in  a 
house  of  her  own,  and  not  a  play-house,  and 
obey  this  kind-faced  young  man — young,  but 
not  in  comparison  with  her,  whose  father  he 
could  have  been.  And  she  would  have  anklets 


176  JUNGLE  PEACE 

and  bracelets  and  a  gorgeous  nose-button  if  he 
could  save  enough  shillings, — I  almost  said 
rupees, — and  ultimately  she  would  go  and  cut 
grass  with  the  other  women,  and  each  day  take 
her  little  baby  astride  her  hip  down  to  the 
water  and  wash  it,  as  she,  so  very  short  a  time 
ago,  had  been  washed. 

And  so,  close  to  the  wonder  windows,  we  had 
seen  a  marriage  of  strange  peoples,  who  were 
yet  of  our  own  old  Aryan  stock;  whose  cere- 
monies were  already  ancient  when  the  Christians 
first  kept  faith,  now  transported  to  a  new  land 
where  life  was  infinitely  easier  for  them  than  in 
their  own  overcrowded  villages;  immigrants  to 
the  tropical  hinterland  where  they  rubbed  elbows 
with  idle  Africans  and  stolid  Red  Indians.  And 
I  was  glad  of  all  their  strange  symbolic  doings, 
for  these  showed  imagination  and  a  love  of  the 
long  past  in  time  and  the  distant  in  space. 

I  wished  a  good  wish  for  Budhany,  our  little 
milkmaid,  and  forgot  all  in  the  sound,  dreamless 
sleep  which  comes  each  night  at  Kalacoon. 


VIII 
THE  CONVICT  TRAIL 

I  AM  thinking  of  a  very  wonderful  thing  and 
words  come  laggardly.  For  it  is  a  thing  which 
more  easily  rests  quietly  in  the  deep  pool  of 
memory  than  stirred  up  and  crystalized  into 
words  and  phrases.  It  is  of  the  making  of  a 
new  trail,  of  the  need  and  the  planning  and 
the  achievement,  of  the  immediate  effects  and 
the  possible  consequences.  For  the  effects  be- 
came manifest  at  once,  myriad,  unexpected, 
some  sinister,  others  altogether  thrilling  and 
wholly  delightful  to  the  soul  of  a  naturalist. 
And  now,  many  months  after,  they  are  still 
spreading,  like  a  forest  fire  which  has  passed 
beyond  control.  Only  in  this  case  the  land  was 
no  worse  and  untold  numbers  of  creatures  were 
better  off  because  of  our  new  trail. 

Of  the  still  more  distant  consequences  I  can- 
not write,  for  the  book  of  the  future  is  tightly 
sealed.  But  we  may  recall  that  a  trail  once 

177 


178  JUNGLE  PEACE 

was  cut  through  coarse,  high  grass  and  belts 
of  cedar,  which  in  time  became  the  Appian 
Way.  And  a  herd  of  aurochs  breasting  in 
single  file  dense  shrubby  oaks  and  heather 
toward  a  salt  lick  may  well  have  foreshadowed 
Regent  Street;  the  Place  d'Etoile  was  perhaps 
first  adumbrated  by  wild  boars  concentrating 
on  a  root-filled  marsh.  And  why  should  not 
the  Indian  trail  which  became  a  Dutch  road  and 
our  Fifth  Avenue,  have  had  its  first  hint  in  a 
moose  track  down  the  heart  of  a  wooded  island, 
leading  to  some  hidden  spring! 

We  left  our  boats  stranded  on  the  Mazaruni 
River  bank  and  climbed  the  steep  ascent  to  our 
new  home  in  the  heart  of  British  Guiana.  Our 
outfit  was  unpacked,  and  the  laboratory  and 
kitchen  and  bedrooms  in  the  big  Kalacoon  house 
were  at  last  more  than  names. 

And  now  we  surveyed  our  little  kingdom. 
One  path  led  down  to  our  boats,  another  mean- 
dered eastwards  through  the  hills.  But  like 
the  feathered  end  of  the  magnetic  arrow,  we 
drifted  as  with  one  will  to  the  south.  Here  at 
the  edge  of  our  cleared  compound  we  were 
confronted  by  a  tangle.  It  was  not  very  high — 
twenty  feet  or  so — but  dense  and  unbroken. 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  179 

Like  newly  trapped  creatures  we  paced  back 
and  forth  along  it  looking  for  an  opening.  It 
was  without  a  break.  We  examined  it  more 
closely  and  saw  a  multitude  of  slender,  grace- 
ful cane  stems  hung  with  festoons  and  grass- 
like  drapery.  One  of  us  seized  a  wisp  of  this 
climbing  grass  and  pulled  downward.  When  he 
dropped  it  his  hand  dripped  blood.  He  might 
as  well  have  run  a  scroll  saw  over  his  fingers. 
The  jungle  had  shown  its  teeth. 

We  laughed  and  retreated  to  the  upper  floor 
for  consultation.  The  sight  we  saw  there  de- 
cided us.  In  the  distance  "  not  too  far,"  to 
use  the  hopelessly  indefinite  Guiana  vernacular, 
high  over  the  tumbled  lower  growths  towered 
the  real  jungle — the  high  bush.  This  was  the 
edge  of  that  mighty  tropical  ocean  of  foliage, 
that  sea  of  life  with  its  surface  one  hundred, 
two  hundred  feet  above  the  earth,  stretching 
unbroken  to  the  Andes:  leagues  of  unknown 
wonderland.  And  here  we  were,  after  thou- 
sands of  miles  of  voyaging  to  study  the  life  of 
this  great  jungle,  to  find  our  last  few  yards 
blocked  by  a  mass  of  vegetation.  There  was  no 
dissenting  voice.  We  must  cut  a  trail,  and  at 
once,  straight  to  the  jungle. 


180  JUNGLE  PEACE 

Before  we  begin  our  trail,  it  will  be  wise  to 
try  to  understand  this  twenty-foot  tangle, 
stretching  almost  a  mile  back  from  Kalacoon, 
Three  years  before  it  was  pure  jungle.  Then 
man  came  with  ax  and  saw  and  fire  and  one  by 
one  the  great  giants  were  felled — mora,  green- 
heart,  crabwood — each  crashing  its  way  to  earth 
after  centuries  of  upward  growth.  The  under- 
brush in  the  dark,  high  jungle  is  comparatively 
scanty.  Light-starved  and  fungus-plagued,  the 
shrubs  and  saplings  are  stunted  and  weak.  So 
when  only  the  great  stumps  were  left  standing, 
the  erstwhile  jungle  showed  as  a  mere  shambles 
of  raw  wood  and  shriveled  foliage.  After  a 
time  fire  was  applied,  and  quickly,  as  in  the 
case  of  resinous  trees,  or  with  long,  slow  smolder- 
ings  of  half -rotted,  hollow  giants,  the  huge  boles 
were  consumed. 

For  a  period,  utter  desolation  reigned.  Char- 
coal and  gray  ash  covered  everything.  No  life 
stirred.  Birds  had  flown,  reptiles  and  insects 
made  their  escape  or  succumbed.  Only  the 
saffron-faced  vultures  swung  past,  on  the  watch 
for  some  half-charred  creature.  Almost  at  once, 
however,  the  marvelous  vitality  of  the  tropical 
vegetation  asserted  itself.  Phoenix-like,  from 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  181 

the  very  heart  of  the  ashes,  appeared  leaves  of 
strange  shape  and  color.  Stumps  whose  tis- 
sues seemed  wholly  turned  to  charcoal  sent  forth 
adventitious  shoots,  and  splintered  boughs  blos- 
somed from  their  wounds.  Now  was  the  lowest 
ebb  of  the  jungle's  life,  when  man  for  the  suc- 
cess of  his  commercial  aims,  should  take  instant 
advantage.  But  plans  miscarried  and  the  ruin 
wrought  was  left  to  nature. 

The  destruction  of  the  jungle  had  been  com- 
plete and  the  searing  flames  had  destroyed  all 
forest  seeds.  In  their  place,  by  some  magic, 
there  sprang  up  at  once  a  maze  of  weeds,  vines 
and  woody  shrubs,  reeds,  ferns  and  grasses,  all 
foreign  to  the  dark  jungle  and  whose  nearest 
congeners  were  miles  away.  Yet  here  were  their 
seeds  and  spores,  baffling  all  attempts  at  tracing 
their  migration  or  the  time  they  had  laid  dor- 
mant. 

When  we  had  begun  to  penetrate  this  new- 
born tangle  we  found  it  possible,  by  comparing 
various  spots,  to  follow  its  growth  in  past  time. 
The  first  things  to  appear  in  the  burned  jungle 
area  were  grasses  or  grass-like  plants  and  pros- 
trate vines.  These  latter  climbed  over  the  fallen 
tree-trunks  and  covered  the  charred  stumps  with 


182  JUNGLE  PEACE 

a  glory  of  blossoms — white  convolvulus  gleam- 
ing everywhere,  then  pale  yellow  allamandas, 
and  later,  orchid-like,  violet,  butterfly  peas 
which  at  first  flowered  among  the  ashes  on  the 
ground,  but  climbed  as  soon  as  they  found  sup- 
port. Little  by  little,  a  five-finger  vine  flung 
whole  chains  of  bloom  over  stumps,  logs  and 
bushes,  a  beautiful,  blood-red  passion  flower, 
whose  buds  looked  like  strings  of  tiny  Chinese 
lanterns. 

Soon  another  type  of  plant  appeared,  with 
hollow  and  jointed  stems,  pushing  out  fans  of 
fingered  leaves,  swiftly,  wasting  no  time  in 
branching,  but  content  with  a  single  spike 
piercing  up  through  strata  of  grass  and  reeds, 
through  shrubs  and  bushes  until  it  won  to  the 
open  sky.  This  was  the  cecropia  or  trumpet 
tree,  falsely  appearing  firm  and  solid  stemmed, 
but  quite  dominant  in  the  neglected  tangle. 

We  started  early  one  morning  with  small 
axes  and  sharp  machetes,  and  single  file,  began 
to  cut  and  hew  and  tear  a  narrow  trail  south- 
ward. For  some  distance  we  found  almost  a 
pure  culture  of  the  cecropia  trees,  through  which 
we  made  rapid  progress  which  aroused  entirely 
false  hopes.  It  was  a  joy  to  crash  obliquely 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  183 

through  the  crisp  hollow  stems  at  one  blow  from 
our  great  knives.  The  second  man  cut  again 
at  the  base  and  the  rest  took  the  severed  stems 
and  threw  or  pushed  them  to  one  side,  cutting 
away  any  smaller  growths.  We  soon  learned 
to  be  careful  in  handling  the  stems  for  they 
were  sanctuary  for  scores  of  a  small  stinging 
ant,  whose  race  had  practiced  preparedness  for 
many  generations  and  who  rushed  out  when  the 
stem  was  split  by  cutlass  or  ax. 

As  we  went  on  we  learned  that  differences 
in  soil  which  were  not  apparent  when  the  great 
jungle  covered  everything,  had  now  become  of 
much  importance.  On  high  sandy  spots  the 
cecropias  did  not  get  that  flying  start  which 
they  needed  for  their  vertical  straightaway  dash. 
Here  a  community  of  hollow  reeds  or  bamboo 
grass  appeared  from  no  one  knows  where.  They 
had  grown  and  multiplied  until  their  stems 
fairly  touched  one  another,  forming  a  dense, 
impenetrable  thicket  of  green,  silicious  tubes 
eight  to  twelve  feet  in  length.  These  were 
smooth  and  hard  as  glass  and  tapered  beauti- 
fully, making  wonderfully  light  and  strong 
arrows  with  which  our  Akawai  Indians  shot  fish. 
Slow  indeed  was  our  progress  through  this.  The 


184  JUNGLE  PEACE 

silica  dulled  and  chipped  our  blades  and  the 
sharp  points  of  the  cut  stems  lamed  us  at  a 
touch. 

But  whatever  the  character  of  the  vegetation, 
whether  a  tangle  of  various  thorny  nightshades, 
a  grove  of  cecropias,  or  a  serried  phalanx  of 
reeds,  the  terrible  razor-grass  overran  all. 
Gracefully  it  hung  in  emerald  loops  from  branch 
to  branch,  festooning  living  foliage  and  dead 
stump  alike,  with  masses  of  slender  fronds.  It 
appeared  soft  and  loose-hung  as  if  one  could 
brush  it  away  with  a  sweep  of  the  hand.  But 
it  was  the  most  punishing  of  all  living  things, 
insidiously  cutting  to  the  bone  as  we  grasped  it, 
and  binding  all  this  new  growth  together  with 
bands  more  efficient  than  steel. 

An  age-old  jungle  is  kind  to  the  intruder,  its 
floor  is  smooth  and  open,  one's  footsteps  fall 
upon  soft  moss,  the  air  is  cooled  and  shadowed 
by  the  foliage  high  overhead.  Here,  in  this 
mushroom  growth  of  only  three  years,  our  prog- 
ress became  slower  and  ever  more  difficult.  Our 
hands  bled  and  were  cut  until  we  could  barely 
keep  them  gripped  about  the  cutlass  handles; 
our  trail  opened  up  a  lane  down  which  poured 
the  seething  heat  of  the  sun's  direct  rays;  thorns 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  185 

penetrated  our  moccasins  and  ants  dropped 
down  our  necks  and  bit  and  stung  simultane- 
ously with  opposite  ends  of  their  anatomy.  Five 
minutes'  chopping  and  hacking  was  all  that  the 
leader  could  stand,  who  would  then  give  way  to 
another.  Fifty  yards  of  a  narrow  lane  repre- 
sented our  combined  efforts  the  first  day. 

Direction  was  a  constant  source  of  trouble. 
Every  three  or  four  feet  we  had  to  consult  a 
compass,  so  confusing  was  the  tangle.  Sudden 
gullies  blocked  us,  a  barren,  half-open,  sandy 
slope  cheered  us  for  a  few  yards.  It  was  na- 
ture's defense  and  excelled  any  barbed-wire  en- 
tanglement I  have  ever  seen  at  the  battle-front. 

Once  I  came  to  a  steep  concealed  gully.  The 
razor-grass  had  been  particularly  bad,  giving 
like  elastic  to  blows  of  the  cutlass  and  then  fly- 
ing back  across  my  face.  I  was  adrip  with  per- 
spiration, panting  in  the  heat  when  I  slid  part 
way  down  the  bank,  and  chopping  away  a  solid 
mass  of  huge  elephant's  ears,  uncovered  a  tree- 
trunk  bridging  the  swamp.  It  brought  to  mind 
the  bridge  from  Bad  to  Worse  in  the  terrible 
Dubious  Land.  Strange  insects  fled  from  the 
great  leaves,  lizards  whisked  past  me,  humming- 
birds whirred  close  to  my  face — the  very  sound 


186  JUNGLE  PEACE 

seeming  to  increase  the  heat.  I  slipped  and 
fell  off  the  log,  splashing  into  the  hot  water 
and  warm  mud,  and  sat  in  it  for  a  while,  too 
fagged  to  move.  Then  the  rest  of  the  party 
came  up  and  we  clambered  slowly  to  the  top 
of  the  next  rise,  and  there  caught  sight  of  the 
jungle's  edge,  and  it  seemed  a  trifle  nearer  and 
we  went  on  with  renewed  courage.  Shortly 
afterwards  two  of  us  were  resting  in  a  patch  of 
reeds  while  the  third  worked  some  distance 
ahead,  when  there  came  a  sudden  low  growl  and 
rush.  Instinctively  we  rose  on  the  instant,  just 
in  time  to  see  a  jaguar  swerve  off  on  one  side 
and  disappear  in  a  swish  of  swaying  reed  stems. 
I  have  never  known  one  of  these  animals  to  at- 
tack a  man,  and  in  this  case  the  jaguar  had 
undoubtedly  heard  but  not  scented  us,  and  the 
attack  ceased  the  moment  we  proved  to  be 
other  than  deer  or  similar  prey.  The  incident 
had  come  and  passed  too  swiftly  for  thought, 
but  now  when  we  realized  that  this  was  a  bit 
of  the  real  wild  life  of  the  jungle,  our  enthusi- 
asm never  flagged,  and  we  kept  steadily  at  the 
heart-breaking  work,  resting  only  now  and  then 
for  our  cuts  to  heal. 

Then    a   government    official    who    was    our 


The  Edge  of  the  Jungle 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  187 

guest,  took  pity  on  us,  and  for  science'  sake, 
obtained  special  dispensation.  One  morning  we 
went  out  and  found  in  our  compound  several 
huge,  blue-uniformed  policemen,  who  saluted 
and  with  real  black  magic,  produced  twenty 
convicts — negroes  and  coolies — armed  with  cut- 
lasses. So  began  the  second  phase  of  what  we 
now  named  the  Convict  Trail.  We  had  already 
fought  our  painful  way  through  a  half-mile  of 
the  terrible  maze,  and  now  we  heartily  wel- 
comed this  new  aid,  whether  good-natured  mur- 
derers, and  burglars,  or  like  Sippy,  Slorg  and 
Slith,  mere  thieves.  We  watched  them  strip  to 
their  black  skins  and  begin  a  real  assault.  On 
a  front  of  ten  to  fifteen  feet,  the  tangle  fairly 
dissolved  before  our  eyes,  and  their  great  tough 
palms  and  soles  made  little  moment  of  the  razor- 
grass  and  thorns.  In  one  of  the  slight-bodied 
coolies,  whose  task  was  to  clear  away  the  cut 
debris,  I  recognized  Ram  Narine,  whose  trial 
had  been  the  cause  of  my  traveling  another 
trail. 

With  my  friend,  Hope,  an  honest  forger,  I 
went  on  far  ahead  and  laid  the  course  for  the 
jungle.  In  especially  dense  parts  we  climbed 
to  the  summit  of  great  jungle  stumps  and 


188  JUNGLE  PEACE 

stretched  a  white  sheet  to.  guide  the  oncoming 
trail  cutters. 

Day  after  day  the  score  of  convicts  returned 
with  their  guards  and  at  last  we  saw  the  path 
unite  with  an  old  game  and  Indian  trail  in  the 
cool  shade  of  the  jungle,  and  Kalacoon  was  in 
direct  contact  with  the  great  tropical  forest  it- 
self. I  have  passed  lightly  over  the  really 
frightful  pain  and  exhaustion  which  we  experi- 
enced in  the  initial  part  of  this  work,  and  which 
emphasized  the  tremendous  difference  between 
the  age-old  jungle  untouched  by  man,  and  the 
terrible  tangle  which  springs  after  he  has  de- 
stroyed the  primeval  vegetation. 

After  this  came  our  reward,  and  never  a 
day  passed  but  the  trail  yielded  many  wonder- 
ful facts.  The  creatures  of  the  wilderness  soon 
found  this  wide  swath,  and  used  it  by  day  and 
night,  making  it  an  exciting  thing  for  us  to  peer 
around  a  corner,  to  see  what  strange  beings 
were  sitting  or  feeding  in  our  little  street. 

Before    the    trail    was    quite    completed,    it 
yielded  one  of  the  most  exciting  hunts  of  our 
trip — the  noosing  of  a  giant  bushmaster — the 
most  deadly  serpent  of  the  tropics.     Nupce— 
my  Akawai  Indian  hunter,  two  nestling  trogons 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  189 

and  Easter  eve — these  things  led  to  the  capture 
of  the  Master  of  the  Bush:  For  nothing  in 
the  tropics  is  direct,  premeditated. 

My  thoughts  were  far  from  poisonous  ser- 
pents when  Nupee  came  into  our  Kalacoon 
laboratory  late  on  a  Saturday  afternoon.  Out- 
doors he  had  deposited  the  coarser  game  in- 
tended for  the  mess,  consisting,  today,  of  a  small 
deer,  a  tinamou  or  maam  and  two  agoutis.  But 
now  with  his  quiet  smile,  he  held  out  his  lesser 
booty,  which  he  always  brought  in  to  me,  offer- 
ing in  his  slender,  effeminate  hands  his  contribu- 
tion to  science.  Usually  this  was  a  bird  of 
brilliant  plumage,  or  a  nestful  of  maam's  eggs 
with  shells  like  great  spheres  of  burnished 
emeralds.  These  he  would  carry  in  a  basket  so 
cunningly  woven  from  a  single  palm  frond  that 
it  shared  our  interest  in  its  contents.  Today, 
he  presented  two  nestling  trogons,  and  this  was 
against  rules.  For  we  desired  only  to  know 
where  such  nests  were,  there  to  go  and  study 
and  photograph. 

"  Nupee, — listen!  You  sabe  we  no  want  bird 
here.  Must  go  and  show  nest,  eh?" 

"  Me  sabe." 

Accompanied  by  one  of  us,   off  he  started 


190  JUNGLE  PEACE 

again,  without  a  murmur.  In  the  slanting  rays 
of  the  sun  he  walked  lightly  down  the  trail 
from  Kalacoon  as  if  he  had  not  been  hunting 
since  early  dawn.  An  hour  passed  and  the  sun 
swung  still  lower  when  a  panting  voice  gasped 
out: 

"Huge  labaria,  yards  long!  Big  as  leg!" 
The  flight  of  queen  bees  and  their  swarms, 
the  call  to  .arms  in  a  sleeping  camp  creates  some- 
what the  commotion  that  the  news  of  the  bush- 
master  aroused  with  us.  For  he  is  really  what 
his  name  implies.  What  the  elephant  is  to  the 
African  jungles  and  the  buffalo  to  Malaysia, 
this  serpent  is  to  the  Guiana  wilderness.  He 
fears  nothing — save  one  thing,  hunting  ants, 
before  which  all  the  world  flees.  And  this  was 
the  first  bushmaster  of  the  rainy  season. 

Nupee  had  been  left  to  mount  guard  over 
the  serpent  which  had  been  found  near  the 
trogon  tree.  Already  the  light  was  failing;  so 
we  walked  rapidly  with  gun,  snake-pole  and 
canvas  bag.  Parrakeets  hurtled  bamboowards 
to  roost;  doves  scurried  off  and  small  rails  flew 
from  our  path  and  flopped  into  the  reeds.  Our 
route  led  from  the  open  compound  of  Kalacoon, 
through  the  freshly  cut  Convict  Trail,  toward 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  191 

the  edge  of  the  high  bush,  and  we  did  not 
slacken  speed  until  we  were  in  the  dim  light 
which  filtered  through  the  western  branches. 

At  the  top  of  the  slope  we  heard  a  yell — a 
veritable  Red  Indian  yell — and  there  our  Aka- 
wai  hunter  was  dancing  excitedly  about,  shouting 
to  us  to  come  on.  "  Snake,  he  move!  Snake,  he 
move !  "  We  arrived  panting,  and  he  tremblingly 
led  me  along  a  fallen  tree  and  pointed  to  the 
dead  leaves.  I  well  knew  the  color  and  pattern 
of  the  bushmaster.  I  had  had  them  brought  to 
me  dead  and  had  killed  them  myself,  and  I  had 
seen  them  in  their  cage  behind  glass.  But  now, 
though  I  was  thinking  bushmaster  and  looking 
bushmaster,  my  eyes  insisted  on  registering  dead 
leaves.  Eager  as  I  was  to  begin  operations 
before  darkness  closed  down,  it  was  a  full  three 
minutes  before  I  could  honestly  say,  "  This  is 
leaf;  that  is  snake." 

The  pattern  and  pigment  of  the  cunningly 
arranged  coils  were  that  of  the  jungle  floor, 
anywhere;  a  design  of  dead  leaves,  reddish- 
yellow,  pinkish,  dark-brown,  etched  with  mold, 
fungus  and  decay,  and  with  all  the  shadows  and 
high  lights  which  the  heaped-up  plant  tissues 
throw  upon  one  another.  In  the  center  of  this 


192  JUNGLE  PEACE 

dread  plaque,  this  reptilian  mirage,  silent  and 
motionless,  rested  the  head.  I  knew  it  was 
triangular  and  flattened,  because  I  had  dissected 
such  heads  in  times  past,  but  now  my  senses 
revealed  to  me  only  an  irregularity  in  the  con- 
tour, a  central  focus  in  this  jungle  mat,  the  un- 
raveling of  which  spelt  death. 

It  was  a  big  snake,  seven  or  eight  feet  long, 
and  heavy  bodied — by  no  means  a  one-man  job. 
Again  we  carefully  examined  the  screw-eyes  on 
the  pole,  and  each  looked  behind  for  a  possible 
line  of  escape. 

I  quickly  formed  my  method  of  attack.  Nu- 
pee  was  sent  to  cut  forked  sticks,  but  his  en- 
thusiasm at  having  work  to  do  away  from  the 
scene  of  immediate  conflict  was  so  sincere  that 
he  vanished  altogether  and  returned  with  the 
sticks  only  when  our  shouts  announced  the  end 
of  the  struggle.  An  Indian  will  smilingly 
undergo  any  physical  hardship,  and  he  will  face 
any  creature  in  the  jungle,  except  the  bush- 
master. 

We  approached  from  three  sides,  bringing 
snake-pole,  free  noose  and  gun  to  bear.  Slowly 
the  noose  on  the  pole  pushed  nearer  and  nearer. 
I  had  no  idea  how  he  would  react  at  the  attack, 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  193 

whether  he  would  receive  it  quietly,  or,  as  I  have 
seen  the  king  cobra  in  Burma,  become  enraged 
and  attack  in  turn. 

The  cord  touched  his  nose,  and  he  drew  back 
close  to  some  bushy  stems.  Again  it  dangled 
against  his  head,  and  his  tongue  played  like 
lightning.  And  now  he  sent  forth  the  warning 
of  his  mastership — a  sharp  whirrrrr!  and  the  tip 
of  his  tail  became  a  blur,  the  rough  scales  rasp- 
ing and  vibrating  against  the  dead  leaves,  and 
giving  out  a  sound  not  less  sharp  and  sinister 
than  the  instrumental  rattling  of  his  near  rela- 
tives. 

For  a  moment  the  head  hung  motionless,  then 
the  noose-man  made  a  lunge  and  pulled  his 
cord.  The  great  serpent  drew  back  like  a  flash, 
and  turning,  undulated  slowly  away  toward  the 
darker  depths  of  the  forest.  There  was  no 
panic,  no  fear  of  pursuit  in  his  movements.  He 
had  encountered  something  quite  new  to  his  ex- 
perience, and  the  knowledge  of  his  own  power 
made  it  easy  for  him  to  gauge  that  of  an  oppo- 
nent. He  feared  neither  deer  nor  tapir,  yet  at 
their  approach  he  would  sound  his  warning  as  a 
reciprocal  precaution,  poison  against  hoofs. 
And  now,  when  his  warning  had  no  effect  on 


194.  JUNGLE  PEACE 

this  new  disturbing  thing,  he  chose  dignifiedly 
to  withdraw. 

I  crept  quickly  along  on  one  side  and  with 
the  gun-barrel  slightly  deflected  his  course  so 
that  he  was  headed  toward  an  open  space,  free 
from  brush  and  bush-ropes.  Here  the  pole- 
man  awaited  him,  the  noose  spread  and  sway- 
ing a  few  inches  from  the  leaves.  Steadily  the 
snake  held  to  his  course,  and  without  sensing 
any  danger  pushed  his  head  cleanly  into  the 
circle  of  cord.  A  sudden  snap  of  the  taut  line 
and  pandemonium  began.  The  snake  lashed 
and  curled  and  whipped  up  a  whirlpool  of  debris, 
while  one  of  us  held  grimly  on  to  the  noose  and 
the  rest  tried  to  disentangle  the  whirling  coils 
and  make  certain  of  a  tight  grip  close  behind  the 
head,  praying  for  the  screw-eyes  to  hold  fast. 
Even  with  the  scant  inch  of  neck  ahead  of  the 
noose,  the  head  had  such  play  that  I  had  to  pin 
it  down  with  the  gun-barrel  before  we  dared 
seize  it.  When  our  fingers  gained  their  safe 
hold  and  pressed,  the  great  mouth  opened  wide, 
a  gaping  expanse  of  snowy  white  tissue,  and 
the  inch-long  fangs  appeared  erect,  each  draped 
under  the  folds  of  its  sheath  like  a  rapier  out- 
lined beneath  a  courtier's  cloak. 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  195 

When  once  the  serpent  felt  himself  con- 
quered, he  ceased  to  struggle;  and  this  was  for- 
tunate, for  in  the  dim  light  we  stumbled  more 
than  once  as  we  sidled  and  backed  through  the 
maze  of  lianas  and  over  fallen  logs. 

Nupee  now  appeared,  unashamed  and  wide- 
eyed  with  excitement.  He  followed  and  picked 
up  the  wreck  of  battle — gun,  hats  and  bags 
which  had  been  thrown  aside  or  knocked  off  in 
the  struggle.  With  locked  step,  so  as  not  to 
wrench  the  long  body,  we  marched  back  to  Kala- 
coon.  Now  and  then  a  great  shudder  would 
pass  through  the  hanging  loops  and  a  spasm 
of  muscular  stress  that  tested  our  strength.  It 
was  no  easy  matter  to  hold  the  snake,  for  the 
scales  on  its  back  were  as  rough  and  hard  as  a 
file,  and  a  sudden  twist  fairly  took  the  skin  off 
one's  hand. 

I  cleaned  his  mouth  of  all  dirt  and  debris,  and 
then  we  laid  him  upon  the  ground  and,  without 
stretching,  found  that  he  measured  a  good  eight 
feet  and  a  half.  With  no  relaxing  of  care  we 
slid  him  into  the  wired  box  which  would  be  his 
home  until  he  was  liberated  in  his  roomier  quar- 
ters in  the  Zoological  Park  in  New  York. 

Close  to  the  very  entrance  of  the   Convict 


196  JUNGLE  PEACE 

Trail  behind  Kalacoon  stood  four  sentinel  trees. 
Every  day  we  passed  and  repassed  them  on  the 
way  to  and  from  the  jungle.  For  many  days 
we  paid  very  little  attention  to  them,  except  to 
be  grateful  for  the  shade  cast  by  their  dense 
foliage  of  glossy  leaves.  Their  trunks  were  their 
most  striking  feature,  the  bark  almost  concealed 
by  a  maze  of  beautifully  colored  lichens,  differ- 
ent forms  overlapping  one  another  in  many 
places,  forming  a  palimpsest  of  gray,  white,  pink, 
mauve  and  lilac.  One  day  a  streaked  flycatcher 
chose  the  top  of  a  branch  for  her  nest,  and 
this  we  watched  and  photographed  and  robbed 
for  science'  sake,  and  again  we  thought  no  more 
of  the  four  trees. 

Late  in  April,  however,  a  change  came  over 
the  trees.  The  leaves  had  been  shed  some  time 
in  January  and  the  fallen  foliage  formed  a  dry 
mass  on  the  ground  which  crackled  under  foot. 
Now  each  branch  and  twig  began  to  send  out 
clusters  of  small  buds,  and  one  day, — a  week 
after  Easter, — these  burst  into  indescribable 
glory.  Every  lichened  bough  and  branch  and 
twig  was  lined  with  a  soft  mass  of  bloom,  clear, 
bright  cerise,  which  reflected  its  brilliance  on  the 
foliage  itself.  After  two  days  a  rain  of  stamens 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  197 

began  and  soon  the  ground  beneath  the  trees 
was  solid  cerise,  a  carpet  of  tens  of  thousands 
of  fallen  stamens,  and  within  the  length  of  a 
foot  on  one  small  branch  were  often  a  score 
of  blooms.  This  feast  of  color  was  wonderful 
enough,  and  it  made  us  want  to  know  more  of 
these  trees.  But  all  the  information  we  could 
glean  was  that  they  were  called  French  cashew. 
Yet  they  had  not  nearly  finished  with  the  sur- 
prises they  had  in  store.  A  hummingbird  or  two 
was  not  an  uncommon  sight  along  the  trail  at 
any  time,  but  now  we  began  to  notice  an  in- 
crease in  numbers.  Then  it  was  observed  that 
the  tiny  birds  seemed  to  focus  their  flight  upon 
one  part  of  the  clearing,  and  this  proved  to  be 
the  four  cashew  trees. 

The  next  few  days  made  the  trees  ever  memo- 
rable: they  were  the  Mecca  of  all  the  humming- 
birds in  the  jungle.  In  early  morning  the  air 
for  many  yards  resounded  with  a  dull  droning, 
as  of  a  swarming  of  giant  bees.  Standing  or 
sitting  under  the  tree  we  could  detect  the  units 
of  this  host  and  then  the  individuals  forced 
themselves  on  our  notice.  Back  and  forth  the 
hummers  swooped  and  swung,  now  poising  in 
front  of  a  mass  of  blossom  and  probing  deeply 


198  JUNGLE  PEACE 

among  the  stamens,  now  dashing  off  at  a  tan- 
gent, squeaking  or  chattering  their  loudest. 
The  magnitude  of  the  total  sound  made  by 
these  feathered  atoms  was  astounding;  piercing 
squeaks,  shrill  insect-like  tones,  and  now  and 
then  a  real  song,  diminutive  trills  and  warbles 
as  if  from  a  flock  of  song  birds  a  long  distance 
away.  Combats  and  encounters  were  frequent, 
some  mere  sparring  bouts,  while,  when  two 
would  go  at  it  in  earnest,  their  humming  and 
squeaks  and  throb  of  wings  were  audible  above 
the  general  noise. 

This  being  an  effect,  I  looked  for  the  cause. 
The  massed  cerise  bloom  gave  forth  compara- 
tively little  perfume,  but  at  the  base  of  each 
flower,  hidden  and  protected  by  the  twenty  score 
densely  ranked  stamens,  was  a  cup  of  honey; 
not  a  nectary  with  one  or  two  delicately  dis- 
tilled drops,  but  a  good  thimbleful,  a  veritable 
stein  of  liquor.  No  creature  without  a  long 
proboscis  or  bill  could  penetrate  the  chevaux- 
de-frise  of  stamens,  and  to  reach  the  honey  the 
hummingbirds  had  to  probe  to  their  eyes.  They 
came  out  with  forehead  well  dusted  with  pollen 
and  carried  it  to  the  next  blossom.  The  des- 
tiny of  the  flower  was  now  fulfilled,  the  pot  of 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  199 

honey  might  dry  up,  the  stamens  rain  to  the 
earth  and  the  glory  of  Tyrian  rose  pass  into  the 
dull  hues  of  decay. 

Day  after  day  as  we  watched  this  kaleidoscope 
of  vegetable  and  avian  hues,  we  came  to  know 
more  intimately  the  units  which  formed  the 
mass.  There  were  at  least  fifteen  species  and 
all  had  peculiarities  of  flight  and  plumage  so 
marked  that  they  soon  became  recognizable  at 
sight. 

After  our  eyes  had  become  accustomed  to 
specific  differences  in  these  atoms  of  birds  we 
began  to  notice  the  eccentricities  of  individuals. 
This  was  made  easy  by  the  persistence  with 
which  certain  birds  usurped  and  clung  to  favor- 
ite perches.  One  glowing  hermit  clad  in  resplen- 
dent emerald  armor  selected  a  bare  twig  on  a 
nearby  shrub  and  from  there  challenged  every 
hummer  that  came  in  sight;  whether  larger, 
smaller  or  of  his  own  kind  made  no  difference. 
He  considered  the  cashew  trees  as  his  own  spe- 
cial property  and  as  far  as  his  side  of  them  went 
he  made  good  his  claim.  I  have  never  seen  such 
a  concentration  of  virile  combative  force  in  so 
condensed  a  form. 

In  some  such  way   as   vultures   concentrate 


200  JUNGLE  PEACE 

upon  carrion,  so  news  of  the  cashew  sweets  had 
passed  through  the  jungle.  Not  by  any  altru- 
istic agency  we  may  be  certain,  as  we  watch  the 
selfish,  irritable  little  beings,  but  by  subtile 
scent,  or  as  with  the  vultures,  by  the  jealous 
watching  of  each  other's  actions.  I  observed 
closely  for  one  hour  and  counted  one  hundred 
and  forty-six  hummingbirds  coming  to  the  tree. 
During  the  day  at  least  one  thousand  must 
visit  it. 

They  did  not  have  a  monopoly  of  the  cashew 
manna,  for  now  and  then  a  honey-creeper  or 
flower-pecker  flew  into  the  tree  and  took  toll  of 
the  sweets.  But  they  were  scarcely  noticeable. 
We  had  almost  a  pure  culture  of  hummingbirds 
to  watch  and  vainly  to  attempt  to  study,  for 
more  elusive  creatures  do  not  exist.  Convict 
Trail  revealed  no  more  beautiful  a  sight  than 
this  concentration  of  the  smallest,  most  active 
and  the  most  gorgeous  birds  in  the  world. 

Such  treats — floral  and  avian — were  all  that 
might  be  expected  of  any  tree,  but  the  cashews 
had  still  more  treasures  in  store.  The  weeks 
passed  and  we  had  almost  forgotten  the  flowers 
and  hummingbirds,  when  a  new  odor  greeted  us, 
the  sweet,  intense  smell  of  overripe  fruit.  We 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  201 

noticed  a  scattering  of  soft  yellow  cashews 
fallen  here  and  there,  and  simultaneously  there 
arrived  the  hosts  of  fruit-eating  birds.  From 
the  most  delicate  turquoise  honey-creepers  to 
great  red  and  black  grosbeaks,  they  thronged 
the  trees.  All  day  a  perfect  stream  of  tanagers 
— green,  azure  and  wine-colored — flew  in  and 
about  the  manna,  callistes  and  silver-beaks,  dac- 
nis  and  palm  tanagers.  And  for  a  whole  week 
we  gloried  in  this  new  feast  of  color,  before  the 
last  riddled  cashew  dropped,  to  be  henceforth 
the  prize  of  great  wasps  and  gauze-winged  flies, 
who  guzzled  its  fermented  juice  and  helped  in 
the  general  redistribution  of  its  flesh — back  to 
the  elements  of  the  tropic  mold,  to  await  the 
swarms  of  fingering  rootlets,  a  renewed  syn- 
thesis— to  rise  again  for  a  time  high  in  air, 
again  to  become  part  of  blossom  and  bird  and 
insect. 

It  was  along  this  Convict  Trail  that  I  sank 
the  series  of  pits  which  trapped  unwary  walkers 
of  the  night,  and  halfway  out  at  pit  number 
five,  the  army  ants  waged  their  wonderful 
warfare. 

In  fact  it  was  while  watching  operations  in 
another  sector  of  this  same  battle-front  that  I 


202  JUNGLE  PEACE 

found  myself  all  unintentionally  in  the  sleeping 
chamber  of  the  heliconias. 

Tired  from  a  long  day's  work  in  the  labora- 
tory, I  wandered  slowly  along  the  Convict  Trail, 
aimlessly,  in  that  wholly  relaxed  state  which 
always  seems  to  invite  small  adventures.  It  is 
a  mental  condition  wholly  desirable,  but  not  to 
be  achieved  consciously.  One  cannot  say,  "  Lo, 
I  will  now  be  relaxed,  receptive."  It  must  come 
subconsciously,  unnoticed,  induced  by  a  certain 
wearied  content  of  body  or  mind — and  then — 
many  secret  doors  stand  ajar,  any  one  of  which 
may  be  opened  and  passed  if  the  gods  approve. 
My  stroll  was  marked  at  first,  however,  by  only 
one  quaint  happening.  For  several  weeks  the 
jolly  little  trail-lizards  had  been  carrying  on 
most  enthusiastic  courtships,  marked  with  much 
bowing  and  posing,  and  a  terrific  amount  of 
scrambling  about.  The  previous  day — that  of 
the  first  rains — numbers  of  lizardlets  appeared, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  brown  tree-lizards 
initiated  their  season  of  love-making.  I  had 
often  watched  them  battle  with  one  another — 
combats  wholly  futile  as  far  as  any  damage  was 
concerned.  But  the  vanquished  invariably  gave 
up  to  his  conqueror  the  last  thing  he  had  swal- 


-V*-  tvrjju 

" 

£XS ' 


I 


- 


Jungle  Xear  the  Convict   Trail 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  203 

lowed,  the  victor  receiving  it  in  a  gluttonly 
rather  than  a  gracious  spirit,  but  allowing  his 
captive  to  escape.  I  surprised  one  of  these 
dark-brown  chaps  in  the  trail  and  seized  him 
well  up  toward  the  head,  to  preserve  his  tail 
intact.  Hardly  had  I  lifted  him  from  the 
ground,  when  he  turned  his  head,  considered 
me  calmly  with  his  bright  little  eyes,  and  forth- 
with solemnly  spat  out  a  still  living  ant  in  my 
direction.  The  inquiring  look  he  then  gave  me, 
was  exceedingly  embarrassing.  Who  was  I  not 
to  be  bound  in  chivalry  by  the  accredited  cus- 
toms of  his  race? 

With  dignity  and  certainty  of  acceptance  he 
had  surrendered,  calmly  and  without  doubt  he 
had  proffered  his  little  substitute  of  sword.  It 
was,  I  felt,  infinitely  preferable  to  any  guttural 
and  cowardly  "kamerad!"  Feeling  rather 
shamefaced  I  accepted  the  weakly  struggling 
ant,  gently  lowered  the  small  saurian  to  the 
ground  and  opened  my  fingers.  He  went  as  he 
had  surrendered,  with  steadiness  and  without 
terror.  From  the  summit  of  a  fallen  log  he 
turned  and  watched  me  walk  slowly  out  of  sight, 
and  I  at  least  felt  the  better  for  the  encounter. 

Of  all  tropical  butterflies,  heliconias  seem  the 


204  JUNGLE  PEACE 

most  casual  and  irresponsible.  The  background 
of  the  wings  of  many  is  jet-black,  and  on  this 
sable  canvas  are  splashed  the  boldest  of  yellow 
streaks  and  the  most  conspicuous  of  scarlet  spots. 
Unquestionably  protected  by  nauseous  body 
fluids,  they  flaunt  their  glaring  colors  in  mea- 
sured, impudent  flight,  weaving  their  way  slowly 
through  the  jungle,  in  the  face  of  lizard  and  bird. 
Warningly  colored  they  assuredly  are.  One  can- 
not think  of  them  except  as  flitting  aimlessly  on 
their  way,  usually  threading  the  densest  part  of 
the  undergrowth.  No  butterflies  are  more  con- 
spicuous or  easier  to  capture.  They  must  feed, 
they  must  pay  court  and  mate,  and  they  must 
stop  long  enough  in  their  aimless  wanderings  to 
deposit  their  eggs  on  particular  plants  by  an  in- 
stinct which  we  have  never  fathomed.  But  these 
are  consummations  hidden  from  the  casual  ob- 
server. 

Now,  however,  I  am  prepared  for  any  unex- 
pected meaningful  trait,  for  I  have  surprised 
them  in  a  habit,  which  presupposes  memory, 
sociability  and  caution,  manifested  at  least  sub- 
consciously. 

The  afternoon  had  worn  on,  and  after  leaving 
my  lizard,  I  had  squatted  at  the  edge  of  a  small 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  205 

glade.  This  glade  was  my  private  property, 
and  the  way  by  which  one  reached  it  from  the 
nearby  Convict  Trail  was  a  pressure  trail,  not  a 
cut  one.  One  pushed  one's  way  through  the 
reeds,  which  flew  back  into  place  and  revealed 
nothing.  Lifting  my  eyes  from  the  tragedies 
of  a  hastening  column  of  army  ants,  I  saw  that 
an  unusual  number  of  heliconias  were  flitting 
about  the  glade,  both  species,  the  Reds  and  the 
Yellows.  All  were  fluttering  slowly  about  and 
as  I  watched,  one  by  one  they  alighted  on  the 
very  tips  of  bare  twigs,  upside  down  with  closed 
wings.  In  this  position  they  were  almost  in- 
visible, even  a  side  view  showing  only  the  sub- 
dued under-wing  pigments  which  blended  with 
the  pastel  colors  of  twilight  in  the  glade,  reflected 
from  variegated  leaves  and  from  the  opening 
blossoms  of  the  scarlet  passion  vine.  Perhaps 
the  most  significant  fact  of  this  sleeping  posture, 
was  the  very  evident  protection  it  afforded  to 
butterflies  which  in  motion  during  their  waking 
hours  are  undoubtedly  warningly  colored  and 
advertised  to  the  world  as  inedible.  Hanging 
perpendicularly  beneath  the  twig,  although  they 
were  almost  in  the  open  with  little  or  no  foliage 
overhead,  yet  they  presented  no  surface  to  the 


206  JUNGLE  PEACE 

rain  of  the  night,  and  all  faced  northeast — the 
certain  direction  of  both  rain  and  wind. 

The  first  one  or  two  roosting  butterflies  I 
thought  must  be  due  to  accidental  association, 
but  I  soon  saw  my  error.  I  counted  twelve  of 
the  Red-spots  and  eight  Yellows  on  two  small 
bushes  and  a  few  minutes'  search  revealed  forty- 
three  more.  All  were  swung  invariably  from 
the  tips  of  bare  twigs,  and  there  was  very  evi- 
dent segregation  of  the  two  kinds,  one  on  each 
side  of  the  glade. 

When  I  disturbed  them,  they  flew  up  in  a 
colorful  flurry,  flapped  about  for  a  minute  or 
less  and  returned,  each  to  its  particular  perch. 
After  two  or  three  gentle  waves  of  the  wings 
and  a  momentary  shifting  of  feet  they  settled 
again  to  perfect  rest.  This  persistent  choice  of 
position  was  invariably  the  case,  as  I  observed 
in  a  number  of  butterflies  which  had  recogniz- 
able tears  in  their  wings.  No  matter  how  often 
they  were  disturbed  they  never  made  a  mistake 
in  the  number  of  their  cabin.  A  certain  sec- 
tion of  a  particular  twig  on  a  definite  branch 
was  the  resting  place  of  some  one  heliconia,  and 
he  always  claimed  it. 

Several  were  bright  and  fresh,  newly  emerged, 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  207 

but  the  remainder  were  somewhat  faded  and 
chipped  at  the  edges.  The  delicate  little  beings 
slept  soundly.  I  waited  until  dusk  began  finally 
to  settle  down  and  crept  gently  toward  a  Red- 
spot.  I  brought  my  face  close  and  aroused  no 
sign  of  life.  Then  I  reached  up  and  slowly 
detached  the  butterfly  from  its  resting  place.  It 
moved  its  feet  slightly,  but  soon  became  quiet. 
Then  I  gently  replaced  it,  and  at  the  touch 
of  the  twig,  its  feet  took  new  hold.  When  I 
released  its  wings  it  did  not  fly  but  sank  back 
into  the  same  position  as  before.  I  wondered  if 
I  was  the  first  scientist  to  pluck  a  sleepy  butter- 
fly from  a  jungle  tree  and  replace  it  una wak- 
ened. At  the  time  I  was  more  impressed  by  the 
romantic  beauty  of  it  all  than  by  its  psycho- 
logical significance.  I  wondered  if  heliconias 
ever  dreamed,  I  compared  the  peacefulness  of 
this  little  company  with  the  fierce  ants  which 
even  now  were  just  disappearing  from  view. 
These  were  my  thoughts  rather  than  later  medi- 
tations on  whether  this  might  not  be  a  sort  of 
atavistic  social  instinct,  faintly  reminiscent  of 
the  gregariousness  of  their  caterpillar  youth. 

From  any  point  of  view  I  shall  think  better 
of  ajl  butterflies  for  this  discovery;  their  desire 


208  JUNGLE  PEACE 

for  company,  the  instinctive  wisdom  of  place 
and  posture,  the  gentleness  and  silence  of  the 
little  foregathering  in  the  jungle.  As  I  walked 
back  along  the  trail  several  late  comers  passed 
me,  vibrating  softly  through  the  twilight,  headed 
for  their  glade  of  dreams. 

Subsequent  visits  to  this  glade  emphasized  the 
strength  of  association  of  this  little  fraternity, 
by  realization  of  its  temporal  brevity.  Three 
weeks  after  I  first  discovered  the  glade,  I  re- 
turned in  late  afternoon  and  waited  silently. 
For  a  time  I  feared  that  the  mariposal  friend- 
ship was  a  thing  of  the  past.  But  a  few  min- 
utes before  five  the  first  Red-spot  fluttered  by, 
in  and  out  among  the  twigs  and  leaves,  as  one 
slips  an  aeroplane  through  openings  in  drifting 
clouds.  One  by  one,  from  all  directions,  the  rest 
followed,  until  I  counted  twelve,  twenty,  thirty- 
four.  Many  of  the  twigs  were  now  vacant,  and 
most  of  the  heliconias  were  tattered  and  for- 
lorn, just  able  to  keep  at  their  fluttering  level. 
There  was  something  infinitely  pathetic  in  this 
little  company,  which  in  less  than  a  month  had 
become  so  out  at  elbow,  so  aged,  with  death  close 
ahead,  yet  with  all  their  remaining  strength 
making  their  way  from  north  and  from  south, 


THE  CONVICT  TRAIL  209 

from  dense  and  from  open  jungle,  to  keep  tryst 
for  this  silent,  somnolent  communion.  I  rose 
quietly  and  passed  carefully  from  the  glade, 
disturbing  none  of  the  paper-thin  silhouettes,  so 
like  the  foliage  in  outward  seeming,  yet  so  indi- 
vidual, each  perhaps  with  dim  dreams  of  flowers 
and  little  meetings  and  wind  tossings;  certainly 
with  small  adventures  awaiting  their  awakening 
on  the  morrow,  and  a  very  certain  kismet  such 
a  short  way  ahead. 

Two  weeks  after  this,  only  three  butterflies 
came  to  the  glade,  one  newly  painted,  freshly 
emerged,  the  other  two  old  and  tattered  and 
very  weary. 

I  loitered  on  my  homeward  way  and  before 
I  reached  Kalacoon  found  myself  in  the  Convict 
Trail  in  full  moonlight.  At  one  turn  of  the 
path  a  peculiar  tinkling  reached  my  ear.  It 
was  a  veritable  silver  wire  of  sound — so  high, 
so  tenuous  that  one  had  to  think  as  well  as 
listen  to  keep  it  in  audible  focus.  I  pushed 
through  a  growth  of  cecropias  and  at  once  lost 
the  sound  never  to  hear  it  again,  but  in  its  place 
there  appeared  a  very  wonderful  thing — a  good- 
sized  tree  standing  alone  and  exposed,  bathed 
in  full  moonlight,  and  yet  gleaming,  as  brightly 


210  JUNGLE  PEACE 

as  if  silhouetted  against  complete  darkness,  by 
the  greenish  light  of  numberless  fireflies.  After 
the  first  marvel  of  the  sudden  sight,  I  ap- 
proached and  pulled  down  a  branch  and  counted 
twenty-six  glowing  insects,  as  close  together  as 
the  blossoms  on  a  Japanese  cherry  branch. 
There  were  hundreds  upon  hundreds,  all  clus- 
tered together  in  candelabred  glory,  hidden 
from  the  view  of  all,  at  the  farther  side  of  this 
dense  thicket.  As  I  left  I  remembered  with 
gratitude  the  silver  wire  of  sound  which  had 
guided  me,  and  in  a  far  corner  of  my  mind  I 
stored  a  new  memory — one  which  I  could  draw 
upon  at  need  in  distant  times  of  pain,  or  of  in- 
tolerance or  perhaps  in  some  lull  of  battle — the 
thought  of  a  tree  all  aglow  with  living  flames, 
in  the  moonlight  of  the  Convict  Trail. 


IX 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  "  SOMEWHERE  "  IN  THE 
JUNGLE 

PIT  number  five  had  become  a  shambles. 
Number  five  was  one  of  the  series  of  holes  dug 
along  the  Convict  Trail  to  entrap  unwary  walk- 
ers of  the  night — walkers  or  hoppers,  for  frogs 
and  toads  of  strange  tropical  sorts  were  the 
most  frequent  victims.  It  was  dug  wide  and 
deep  on  the  slope  of  an  ancient  dune  of  pure 
white  sand,  a  dune  deep  hidden  in  the  Guiana 
jungle,  which  had  not  heard  the  rush  and  slither 
of  breaking  waves  for  centuries  untold.  All 
around  this  quiet  glade  was  an  almost  pure  cul- 
ture of  young  cecropia  trees.  Day  after  day 
the  pit  had  entrapped  big  beetles,  rarely  a  mouse 
of  some  unknown  species,  more  frequently  a 
frog. 

Now  I  stood  on  the  brim,  shocked  at  an  unex- 
pected sight.  A  horde  of  those  Huns  of  the 
jungle,  army  ants,  had  made  their  drive  directly 

211 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

across  the  glade,  and  scores  of  fleeing  insects 
and  other  creatures  had  fallen  headlong  into  this 
deep  pit.  From  my  man's  height  it  was  a  dread- 
ful encounter,  but  squatting  near  the  edge  it 
became  even  more  terrible;  and  when  I  flattened 
myself  on  the  sand  and  began  to  distinguish 
individuals  and  perceive  the  details  from  an  ant's 
point  of  view,  I  realized  the  full  horror  and 
irresistibility  of  an  assault  by  these  ants. 

One  is  not  strongly  affected  by  the  dying 
struggles  of  a  single  grasshopper  captured  by 
a  cuckoo  or  flycatcher.  An  individual  roach 
being  torn  to  pieces  moves  one  but  slightly.  A 
batrachian,  however,  has  more  claim  on  our 
emotions,  and  my  sympathy  went  out  to  a 
small,  sandy-white  frog  who  was  making  a  brave 
fight  for  his  life.  The  pit  was  alive  with  a  host 
of  the  army  ants,  and  wherever  the  little  frog 
hopped,  some  soldier  or  heavy- jawed  worker 
soon  found  him  and  sank  jaws  into  his  soft 
skin.  With  frantic  scratching  the  frog  would 
brush  it  off  and  leap  again,  only  to  be  again 
attacked.  The  most  horrible  thing  about  these 
ants  is  their  leaping  ability.  The  hop  of  a  bird 
or  the  jump  of  a  toad  when  going  about  their 
usual  business  of  life,  if  we  think  of  it  at  all,  is 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS 

only  amusing.  But  the  sudden  leap  of  a  bull- 
dog or  tarantula,  and  the  corresponding  vicious 
attack  of  these  ants,  is  particularly  appalling.  I 
saw  a  soldier  leap  a  full  inch  and  a  half  toward 
the  landing  thud  of  the  frog  and  bite  and  sting 
at  the  instant  of  contact.  I  did  not  dare  go  into 
the  pit.  No  warm-blooded  creature  could  have 
stood  the  torture  for  more  than  a  few  seconds. 
So  I  opened  my  umbrella  and  reaching  down, 
scooped  up  the  sand-colored  frog.  A  half-dozen 
ants  came  up  in  the  same  instrument,  but  I 
evaded  them  and  tied  up  the  tormented  batrach- 
ian  in  my  handkerchief. 

My  next  glance  into  the  pit  showed  a  large 
toad,  squatted  on  a  small  shelf  of  sand,  close 
to  the  edge  of  a  crowded  column  of  ants.  He 
was  a  rough  old  chap,  covered  with  warts  and 
corrugations,  and  pigmented  in  dark  gray,  with 
mottlings  of  chocolate  and  dull  red  and  occa- 
sional glints  of  gold.  He  was  crouched  flat,  with 
all  his  fingers  and  toes  tucked  in  beneath  him. 
His  head  was  drawn  in,  his  eyes  closed,  and  all 
his  exposed  surface  was  sticky  with  his  acid  per- 
spiration— the  sweat  of  fear.  He  knew  his 
danger — of  that  there  was  no  doubt — and  he 
was  apparently  aware  of  the  fact  that  he  could 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

not  escape.  Resignedly  he  had  settled  on  the 
very  line  of  traffic  of  the  deadly  foe,  after  in- 
trenching himself  and  summoning  to  his  aid  all 
the  defenses  with  which  nature  had  endowed 
him.  And  he  was  winning  out — the  first  ver- 
tebrate I  have  ever  known  to  withstand  the  army 
ants.  For  a  few  minutes  he  would  be  ignored 
and  his  sides  would  vibrate  as  he  breathed  with 
feverish  rapidity.  Then  two  or  three  ants  would 
run  toward  him,  play  upon  him  with  their  an- 
tennae, and  examine  him  suspiciously.  During 
this  time  he  was  immovable.  Even  when  a  sol- 
dier sank  his  mandibles  deep  into  the  roughened 
skin  and  wrenched  viciously,  the  toad  never 
moved.  He  might  have  been  a  parti-colored 
pebble  embedded  in  its  matrix  of  sand.  Once, 
when  three  bit  him  simultaneously,  he  winced, 
and  the  whitish,  acrid  juice  oozed  from  his  pores. 
Usually  the  ants  were  content  with  merely  ex- 
amining him.  I  left  him  when  I  saw  that  he 
was  in  no  immediate  danger. 

One  other  creature  was  quiescent  in  the  pit 
and  yet  lived:  a  big,  brown,  hardbacked  milli- 
pede. Like  the  frog,  he  fully  realized  his  dan- 
ger and  had  sunk  his  bulk  partly  into  the  sand, 
bending  down  head  and  tail  and  presenting  only 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS 

mailed  segments.  A  mob  of  ants  were  trying 
vainly  to  bite  their  way  into  this  organic 
citadel. 

For  the  dozens  of  grasshoppers,  crickets, 
roaches,  beetles,  spiders,  ants,  and  harvest  men, 
there  was  no  escape.  One  daddy-long-legs  did 
a  pitiful  dance  of  death.  Supported  on  his 
eight  long  legs,  he  stood  high  out  of  reach  of 
his  assailants.  He  was  balanced  so  exactly  that 
the  instant  a  feeling  antenna  touched  a  leg,  he 
would  lift  it  out  of  reach.  Even  when  two  or 
three  were  simultaneously  threatened,  he  raised 
them,  and  at  one  time  stood  perfectly  balanced 
on  four  legs,  the  other  four  waving  in  air.  But 
his  kismet  came  with  a  concerted  rush  of  half  a 
dozen  ants,  which  overbore  him,  and  in  a  frac- 
tion of  time  his  body,  with  two  long  legs  trailing 
behind,  was  straddled  by  a  small  worker  and 
borne  rapidly  away. 

I  now  flattened  myself  on  an  antless  area  at 
the  edge  of  the  pit  and  studied  the  field  of 
battle.  In  another  half-hour  the  massacre  was 
almost  over.  Five  double,  and  often  quadruple, 
columns  were  formed  up  the  sandy  cliffs,  and 
the  terrific  labor  of  carrying  out  the  dead  vic- 
tims began.  The  pit  was  five  feet  deep,  with 


216  JUNGLE  PEACE 

perfectly  straight  sides,  which  at  the  rim  had 
been  gutted  by  the  rain,  so  that  they  actually 
overhung.  Yet  the  ants  which  had  half -climbed, 
half-tumbled  and  rolled  their  way  to  the  bottom 
in  the  wake  of  their  victims,  now  set  themselves 
to  solving  the  problem  of  surmounting  these 
cliffs  of  loose,  crumbling  grains,  dragging  loads 
which,  in  most  cases,  were  much  heavier  than 
themselves.  Imagine  a  gang  of  men  set  to 
carrying  bundles  of  one  to  two  hundred  pounds 
up  perpendicular  cliffs  twelve  hundred  feet  in 
height,  and  the  task  of  the  army  ants  is  made 
more  vivid.  So  swiftly  did  they  work  and  so 
constantly  shifted  their  formations  and  methods 
of  meeting  and  surmounting  difficulties,  that  I 
felt  as  I  used  when  looking  at  a  three-ring  cir- 
cus. I  could  perceive  and  record  only  a  small 
part  of  the  ingenious  devices  and  the  mutual 
assistance  and  sharing  of  the  complicated  condi- 
tions which  arose  at  every  step. 

Among  the  frightemed  victims,  even  for  those 
endowed  with  excellent  eyesight  and  powerful 
flight,  there  was  only  hopeless  confusion  and 
blind  terror.  Instead  of  directing  their  flight 
upward,  they  drove  from  side  to  side.  Those 
whose  leaps  should  have  carried  them  out,  sim- 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  217 

ply  kicked  out  blindly  and  brought  up  against 
the  sandy  walls. 

If  leaf-cutting  ants  had  been  at  work  here, 
there  would  have  been  a  certain  amount  of  co- 
operation. Certain  ones  would  have  cut  leaves, 
other  individuals  would  have  picked  them  up 
and  transported  them.  But  with  the  army  ants 
this  mutual  assistance  was  sublimated,  devel- 
oped to  a  quintessence  of  excellence.  If  I, 
seated  on  the  rim,  overlooking  the  whole,  had 
been  an  all-powerful  spirit,  gifted  with  the 
ability  to  guide  by  thought  simultaneously  all 
the  ants  within  sight,  such  guidance  could  not 
have  bettered  the  cunning  cooperation,  the  unex- 
pectedly clever  anticipation  of  trouble,  the  mar- 
velous singleness  of  purpose  and  manifold  effec- 
tiveness exhibited  by  these  astounding  creatures. 

First,  as  to  the  personnel  of  the  army  ants. 
Roughly  I  divided  them  into  two  categories, 
white-heads  and  black-heads.  The  latter  were 
by  far  the  more  numerous  and,  as  a  rule,  were 
smaller,  with  less  powerful  jaws.  But  this  did 
not  mean  that  the  white-heads  were  all  soldiers. 
Most  of  them  indeed  were  the  hardest  workers. 
Between  the  great  extremes  of  size  in  each  of 
these  two  types,  there  seemed  to  exist  only  a 


218  JUNGLE  PEACE 

difference  of  degree.  The  smallest  black-head 
laborers,  only  a  little  more  than  one-fifth  of  an 
inch  long,  did  their  bit,  flew  like  bull  pups  at 
any  prey  which  showed  signs  of  life,  and  stag- 
gered bravely  along  with  any  piece  of  loot  which 
their  short  legs  could  straddle. 

The  white-heads,  twice  as  large,  were  the 
strong  men  of  the  community,  putting  all  their 
activity  into  the  labor,  shouldering,  pushing, 
dragging,  lifting,  singly  or  in  unison.  These 
persons  had  powerful  jaws,  but  jaws  which  were 
stout  and  scissor-edged.  The  largest  of  the 
white-heads  were  armed  with  reaping-hooks, 
long  inwardly-pronged  jaws,  curved  like  the 
tushes  of  ancient  mammoths,  too  specialized  for 
carrying  loads,  but  well  adapted  for  defense  of 
the  most  powerful  character.  Yet,  as  we  shall 
see,  even  these  were  not  too  proud  to  work,  when 
occasion  demanded  it.  But  their  jaws  were  so 
enormous  that  they  had  to  carry  themselves  very 
erect,  and  they  could  not  make  quite  as  good 
time  as  the  other  castes. 

All  had  reddish  brown  abdomens,  with  darker 
thoraxes  and  white  or  black  heads.  These  heads 
bulged  on  each  side  like  the  domes  of  observa- 
tories. Exactly  in  the  center  of  each  dome, 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  219 

looking  like  the  jet-black  head  of  a  tiny  pin, 
was  the  single  remaining  facet  of  the  eye,  the 
degenerate  residue  of  the  hundreds  which  were 
present  in  their  ancestors,  and  which  the  per- 
fect males  and  females  still  possess  and  look 
through.  Even  this  single  eye  is  a  sham,  for  its 
optic  nerve  dies  out  before  the  brain  ganglion 
is  reached ;  so  we  come  to  the  astounding  realiza- 
tion that  these  ants  are  totally  blind,  and  carry 
on  all  their  activities  through  the  sense  or  senses 
residing  in  those  marvelous  quivering  antennae. 
Here  are  beings  spending  all  their  lives  in  cease- 
less changing  activities,  meeting  and  coping  with 
constantly  new  conditions,  yet  wholly  blind. 
Their  sense  of  smell  dominates  their  judgment 
of  substance,  and  the  moment  an  army  ant 
reached  my  moccasin  he  sank  jaws  and  sting 
deep  into  the  fabric  as  instinctively  and  in- 
stantly as  when  he  executed  the  same  manoeu- 
vers  more  effectively  on  my  hand. 

Keeping  this  handicap  in  mind,  the  achieve- 
ments of  these  little  creatures  assumed  a  still 
greater  significance,  and  with  renewed  interest 
and  appreciation  I  again  surveyed  the  scene  in 
the  amphitheater  before  me.  When  the  major- 
ity of  the  pit  victims  had  been  slain,  the  process 


220  JUNGLE  PEACE 

of  carrying  them  up  to  the  surface  began.  The 
hordes  of  ravening  ants  resolved  themselves,  as 
I  have  said,  into  five  distinct  columns  of  traffic 
which,  inch  by  inch,  fought  for  a  footing  up 
three  of  the  four  sides. 

Half  of  the  bottom  of  the  pit  was  a  sort  of 
flat  table-land  several  inches  higher  than  the  rest, 
and  the  first  thing  the  ants  did  was  to  carry 
all  their  booty  to  this  steppe,  in  pieces  or  bodily, 
some  of  the  unfortunate  creatures  still  protest- 
ing weakly  as  they  were  dragged  along.  In 
fifteen  minutes  the  lowest  part  of  the  pit  bot- 
tom was  deserted,  and  after  much  hesitation  I 
vaulted  down  and  found  a  footing  reasonably 
safe  from  attack. 

Two  traffic  columns  had  already  reached  the 
summit,  and  the  others  were  forging  rapidly 
ahead.  All  used  a  similar  method  of  advance. 
A  group  of  mixed  castes  led  the  way,  acting 
as  scouts,  sappers,  and  miners.  They  searched 
out  every  slope,  every  helpful  step  or  shelf  of 
sand.  They  took  advantage  of  every  hurdle  of 
white  grass-roots  as  a  welcome  grip  which  would 
bind  the  shifting  sand  grains.  Now  and  then 
they  had  to  cross  a  bare,  barren  slope  with  no 
natural  advantages.  Behind  them  pressed  a 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS 

motley  throng,  some  still  obsessed  with  the  sap- 
per instinct,  widening  the  trail,  tumbling  down 
loose,  dangerous  grains.  Some  bore  the  first- 
fruits  of  victory,  small  ants  and  roaches  which 
had  been  the  first  to  succumb.  These  were  car- 
ried by  one,  or  at  most  by  two  ants,  usually  with 
the  prey  held  in  the  jaws  close  beneath  the  body, 
the  legs  or  hinderpart  trailing  behind.  In 
this  straddling  fashion  the  burden  was  borne 
rapidly  along,  an  opposite  method  from 
the  overhead  waving  banners  of  the  leaf- 
cutters. 

With  these  came  a  crowd  of  workers,  both 
white  and  black-headed,  and  soldiers,  all  empty- 
jawed,  active,  but  taking  no  part  in  the  actual 
preparation  of  the  trail.  This  second  cohort  or 
brigade  had,  it  seemed  to  me,  the  most  remark- 
able functions  of  any  of  the  ants  which  I  saw 
during  my  whole  period  of  observation.  They 
were  the  living  implements  of  trail-making,  and 
their  ultimate  functions  and  distribution  were 
so  astounding,  so  correlated,  so  synchronized 
with  the  activities  of  all  the  others  that  it  was  dif- 
ficult not  to  postulate  an  all-pervading  intelli- 
gence, to  think  of  these  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  organisms  as  other  than  corpuscles  in  a  dy- 


222  JUNGLE  PEACE 

namic  stream  of  life  controlled  by  some  single, 
outside  mind. 

Here,  then,  were  scores  of  ants  scrambling  up 
the  steep  uneven  sides,  over  ground  which  they 
had  never  explored,  with  unknown  obstacles 
confronting  them  at  every  step.  To  the  eye 
they  were  ants  of  assorted  sizes,  but  as  they 
advanced,  numbers  fell  out  here  and  there  and 
remained  behind.  This  mob  consisted  of  poten- 
tial corduroy,  rope-bridges,  props,  hand-rails, 
lattices,  screens,  fillers,  stiles,  ladders,  and  other 
unnamable  adjuncts  to  the  successful  scaling 
of  these  apparently  impregnable  cliffs.  If  a 
stratum  of  hard  sand  appeared,  on  which  no 
impression  could  be  made,  a  line  of  ants  strung 
themselves  out,  each  elaborately  fixing  himself 
fast  by  means  of  jaws  and  feet.  From  that 
moment  his  feverish  activity  left  him :  he  became 
a  fixture,  a  single  unit  of  a  swaying  bridge  over 
a  chasm;  a  beam,  an  organic  plank,  over  which 
his  fellows  tramped  by  hundreds,  some  empty, 
some  heavily  laden.  If  a  sudden  ascent  had  to 
be  made,  one  ant  joined  himself  to  others  to 
form  a  hanging  ladder,  up  which  the  columns 
climbed,  partly  braced  against  the  sandy  wall. 

At  uncertain,  unguarded  turns  a  huge  soldier 


Pit  X umber  Five 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS 

would  take  up  his  station,  with  as  many  func- 
tions and  duties  as  a  member  of  the  Broadway 
traffic  squad.  Stray,  wandering  ants  would  be 
set  right  by  a  single  twiddle  of  antennae;  an 
over-burdened  brother  would  be  given  a  helping 
jaw  and  assisted  for  some  distance  to  the  end  of 
his  beat.  I  was  especially  interested  in  seeing, 
again  and  again,  this  willingness  to  help  bear 
the  burdens.  It  showed  the  remains  of  an  in- 
stinct, inhibited  by  over-development,  by  ultra- 
specialization  of  fighting  paraphernalia,  still 
active  when  opportunity  gave  it  play.  At  the 
first  hint,  by  sound  or  smell,  of  danger,  the  big 
soldier  whirled  outward  and,  rearing  high  on  his 
legs,  brandished  his  mighty  blades  in  mid-air. 
Here  was  an  ideal  pacifist,  who  could  turn  his 
sword  into  a  plowshare  at  will,  and  yet  keep  the 
former  unsheathed  for  instant  use. 

When  I  watched  more  closely,  I  detected 
more  delicate  gradations  of  mutual  aid.  At  the 
same  level  in  two  columns  of  ascent,  the  same 
stratum  of  hard  sand  was  encountered.  To  one 
column  the  sand  presented  a  rough  surface 
which  gave  good  foothold.  Here  the  single  line 
of  ants  which  was  ranged  along  the  lower  edge 
of  the  trail,  in  lieu  of  hand-rail,  all  faced  down- 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

ward,  so  that  the  ants  passing  above  them 
walked  partly  on  the  abdomens  and  partly  on 
the  hind  legs  of  their  fellows.  In  the  second 
column,  the  surface  of  the  sand  was  smooth,  and 
here  the  burdened  ants  found  great  difficulty  in 
obtaining  a  foothold.  In  this  instance  the  sup- 
porting gang  of  ants  faced  upward,  keeping 
their  place  solely  by  their  six  sturdy  legs.  This 
left  head  and  jaws  free,  and  in  almost  every 
case  they  helped  the  passage  of  the  booty  by  a 
system  of  passing  from  jaw  to  jaw,  like  a  line 
of  people  handing  buckets  at  a  fire.  The  right- 
ful carriers  gave  up  their  loads  temporarily  and 
devoted  their  attention  to  their  own  precarious 
footing. 

I  learned  as  much  from  the  failures  of  this 
particular  formation  as  from  its  successes.  Once 
a  great  segment  of  a  wood-roach  was  too  much 
for  the  gallant  line  clinging  to  the  sides  of  the 
pit,  and  the  whole  load  broke  loose  and  rolled 
to  the  bottom.  Of  the  hand-rail  squad  only  two 
ants  remained.  Yet  in  four  minutes  another 
line  was  formed  of  fresh  ants, — ants  who  had 
never  been  to  the  spot  before, — and  again  the 
traffic  was  uninterrupted.  I  saw  one  ant  delib- 
erately drop  his  burden,  letting  it  bounce  and 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS 

roll  far  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  pit,  and  in- 
stantly take  his  place  in  the  line  of  living  guard- 
rails. The  former  constituents  of  the  line  had 
clung  to  the  roach  segment  through  all  its  wild 
descent,  and  until  it  came  to  rest  at  the  bottom. 
Without  a  moment's  pause,  they  all  attacked  it 
as  if  they  thought  it  had  come  to  life,  then  seized 
it  and  began  tugging  it  upward.  In  a  fraction 
of  time,  without  signal  or  suggestion  or  order, 
the  hand-rails  had  become  porters.  The  huge 
piece  of  provender  had  rolled  close  to  an  ascend- 
ing column  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  pit,  and 
up  this  new  trail  the  bearers  started,  pulling  and 
pushing  in  unison,  as  if  they  had  been  droghers 
and  nothing  else  throughout  the  whole  of  their 
ant-existence. 

One  climax  of  mutual  assistance  occurred  near 
the  rim  of  the  pit  on  a  level  with  my  eyes,  where 
one  column  passed  over  a  surface  which  had 
been  undermined  by  heavy  rain,  and  which  actu- 
ally overhung.  I  watched  the  overcoming  of 
this  obstacle.  All  the  ants  which  attempted  to 
make  their  way  up  at  this  point  lost  their  foot- 
ing and  rolled  headlong  to  the  bottom.  By 
superformicine  exertions  a  single  small  worker 
at  last  won  a  path  to  the  rim  at  the  top.  Around 


226  JUNGLE  PEACE 

the  edge  of  the  pit  innumerable  ants  were  con- 
stantly running,  trying,  on  their  part,  to  find  a 
way  down.  The  single  ant  communicated  at 
once  with  all  which  came  past,  and  without  hesi- 
tation a  mass  of  the  insects  formed  at  this  spot 
and  began  to  work  downward.  This  could  be 
done  only  by  clinging  one  to  the  other;  but 
more  and  more  clambered  down  this  living  lad- 
der, until  it  swayed  far  out  over  the  vastness 
of  the  pit,  three  inches  in  length.  I  had  never 
lost  sight  of  the  small  worker,  who  had  turned 
on  his  tracks  and  was  now  near  the  bottom  of 
the  ladder,  reaching  wildly  out  for  some  sup- 
port— ant,  grass,  or  sand.  I  was  astonished  to 
see  that,  as  the  length  and  consequent  weight 
of  the  dangling  chain  increased,  the  base  support 
was  correspondingly  strengthened.  Ant  after 
ant  settled  itself  firmly  on  the  sand  at  the  top, 
until  a  mat  of  insects  had  been  formed,  spread 
out  like  animate  guy-ropes. 

At  last  the  ultimate  ant  in  the  rope  touched 
the  upraised  jaws  of  the  soldier  far  below.  The 
contact  acted  like  an  electric  shock.  The  far- 
thest ant  in  the  guy-rope  gang  quivered  with 
emotion,  a  crowd  of  ants  climbed  down  and  an- 
other up,  and  bits  of  insect  and  spider  prey 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  227 

began  to  appear  from  the  depths  of  the  pit,  over 
the  living  carpet  suspended  from  the  brim.  For 
an  inch  the  droghers  climbed  over  the  bodies 
braced  against  the  cliff.  Then,  where  the  sur- 
face became  smooth,  the  dangling  chain  came 
into  use.  Before  the  rim  of  the  pit  was  reached, 
the  chain  had  become  a  veritable  hollow  tube  of 
ants,  all  with  heads  inward,  and  through  this 
organic  shaft  passed  the  host  from  the  as- 
cending column.  But  it  was  far  more  than  any 
mechanically  built  tube.  When  an  extra  large 
piece  of  loot  came  up,  the  tube  voluntarily  en- 
larged, the  swelling  passing  along  until  the 
booty  and  its  bearers  emerged  at  the  top. 

Within  five  minutes  after  this  last  column 
was  completed,  there  passed  over  it,  out  of  the 
pit,  a  daddy-long-legs  with  legs  trailing;  per- 
haps the  same  one  which  I  had  seen  in  the  tragic 
little  dance  of  death.  There  followed  two  sil- 
very-gray ants,  a  wood-roach  in  two  install- 
ments, part  of  a  small  frog,  three  roaches,  and 
two  beetles.  These  latter  gave  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  and  tumbled  down  the  cliff  again  and 
again. 

When  all  the  columns  were  established  and 
the  provision  trains  in  full  movement,  I  leaped 


228  JUNGLE  PEACE 

out  and  scouted  round  for  the  rest  of  the  army. 
I  found  that  the  pit  was  only  an  incident.  In 
all  directions  lines  of  ants  poured  past,  carry- 
ing booty  of  all  sizes  and  descriptions.  Here 
and  there  the  huge  soldiers  walked  slowly  along 
the  outskirts,  directing  stragglers,  looking  for 
danger,  snapping  at  any  roach  or  strange  ant 
which  rushed  frantically  by,  and  holding  it  until 
it  was  carried  off  by  nearby  workers. 

I  followed  a  column  over  logs  and  leaves  to 
where  it  ascended  a  cecropia  tree.  A  harvest 
of  small  arboreal  insects  was  being  gleaned  high 
overhead.  As  I  watched,  there  came  a  heavy 
downpour  of  rain,  a  typical  shower  of  the 
tropics,  with  a  scattering  of  heavy  drops  out  of 
the  full  sunshine  and  then  a  sudden  clouding 
and  a  straight  deluge  for  a  few  minutes.  The 
reaction  of  the  ants  was  interesting.  They  did 
not  like  the  water,  and  it  was  comical  to  see 
them  tumble  over  one  another  to  get  under  shel- 
ter. Like  the  doorways  of  city  shops  in  a 
shower,  every  curled-up  leaf  was  packed,  and 
from  every  crevice  of  bark  projected  sundry 
abdomens  and  hind  legs  for  which  there  was  no 
room  inside.  When  the  bearer  of  a  large  bag 
of  booty  found  a  convenient  corner,  he  backed 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  229 

into  it  and  left  his  meat  sticking  out  in  the 
rain. 

After  the  shower  all  came  forth  at  full  speed, 
but  for  some  minutes  there  was  considerable  con- 
fusion. The  sluice  of  water  had  evidently  washed 
away  much  of  the  scent  which  stood  for  guide- 
posts,  directing  signs,  and  pointing  hands  along 
the  trail.  Only  after  many  false  starts  were  the 
old  pathways  discovered  and  again  traversed. 
In  one  place  the  ants  climbed  a  huge  log  and 
marched  along  the  top  for  six  or  seven  yards. 
I  timed  them  carefully  and  found  that  on  this 
straight-away  track  their  average  speed  was  two 
and  a  half  feet  in  ten  seconds.  So  they  covered 
a  mile  in  three  hours  and  a  half,  and  in  all  the 
army  ants  I  have  ever  watched  this  rate  of  speed 
never  slackens;  in  fact,  it  frequently  greatly 
increases.  When  hot  on  the  scent  of  prey  they 
double  their  usual  gait. 

There  are  as  many  ludicrous  sights  to  be  seen 
in  the  ranks  of  army  ants  as  there  are  among 
the  banner-decked  processions  of  the  leaf -cutters. 
Along  the  tree-trunk  track  came  three  big  white- 
heads  straddling  an  inch-worm — in  this  case  an 
inch-and-a-half-worm.  They  leaned  forward 
and  downward,  the  heads  of  those  behind  over- 


230  JUNGLE  PEACE 

lapping  the  abdomens  in  front,  and  they  looked 
for  all  the  world  like  the  riders  of  an  old- 
fashioned  three-seated  bicycle,  spurting  along 
the  trail.  Another  simile,  even  more  vivid, 
evoked  the  vision  of  some  weirdly  constructed, 
elongated  myriopod  with  eighteen  legs.  After 
a  hard  fight,  in  the  course  of  which  I  was 
stung  twice,  I  unseated  the  trio  and  took  the 
measuring  worm  away  from  them.  As  I  lifted 
it  from  where  it  had  fallen,  at  least  fifty  ants 
hurled  themselves  at  the  spot,  jaws  snapping, 
trembling  with  violent  rage.  I  walked  ten  feet 
away  and  dropped  the  worm  in  the  midst  of 
another  column,  and  within  an  equal  number  of 
seconds  three  new  white-heads  had  mounted  it 
and  were  hustling  it  along — the  replicas  in  ap- 
pearance and  method  of  the  first  team. 

Many  species  of  stranger  ants  were  killed  and 
carried  off  as  food,  but  now  and  then  I  noted  a 
most  significant  exception.  In  three  different 
parts  of  the  glade  I  saw  good-sized,  pale,  flesh- 
colored  ants  which  walked  unharmed  in  the  very 
ranks  of  the  terrible  host.  Unharmed  they  were, 
but  not  wholly  above  suspicion,  and  their  prog- 
ress was  not  an  easy  one.  For  every  unburdened 
ant  which  passed  leaped  at  the  pale  one,  anten- 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  231 

naed  it  fiercely  for  a  moment  and  reluctantly 
released  it.  One  could  read  their  indecision 
as  they  slowly  loosened  their  hold,  turning 
again  and  again  and  waving  their  antenna?  as 
if  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not  better  to  act 
on  their  suspicion  and  slay  at  once.  Finally, 
they  always  passed  on.  The  pale  ones  had  some 
strange  inaudible  password,  some  sensory  parole 
which  protected  them.  And  their  total  lack  of 
fear  showed  their  knowledge  of  their  immunity. 
Even  with  the  added  sense  of  sight  which  they 
possessed,  they  chose  voluntarily  to  accept  this 
dubious,  reluctantly  accorded  friendship.  But 
it  was  probable  that,  even  if  they  lived  in  the 
very  community  or  nest  of  the  army  ants,  theirs 
was  the  hard-earned  dependence  of  neutrals 
who  were  liable  to  be  knocked  down  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  and  searched  for  any  strange, 
inimical  scent  which  would  spell  instant 
death. 

In  one  place  the  army  column  made  a  slight 
detour  round  a  hillock  of  sandgrains  upon  which 
a  host  of  tiny  brown  ants  was  laboring.  I 
thought  it  remarkable  that  such  immunity 
should  be  accorded  these  dwarfs,  and  I  sought 
the  reason.  It  was  forthcoming  at  once  when  I 


232  JUNGLE  PEACE 

gingerly  lifted  a  big  soldier  with  the  forceps 
and  dropped  him  on  the  ant-hill.  What  oc- 
curred was  a  replica  of  the  usual  army  ant  scene, 
but  enacted  as  if  viewed  through  the  large  end 
of  an  opera-glass.  Scores  of  the  minute  brown 
chaps  rushed  forth  and  for  a  moment  fairly 
overbore  the  white-headed  giant.  Indeed,  be- 
fore he  could  recover  he  was  dragged  partly 
down  a  sandy  hole.  His  jaws  brandished  and 
champed,  but  his  assailants  were  so  small  that 
they  slipped  through  them  unharmed.  Many 
actually  seized  the  jaws  themselves  and  were 
hurled  through  the  air  as  they  snapped  together. 
Regaining  his  feet,  the  great  army  ant  stag- 
gered off  and,  fortunately  for  him,  rolled  down 
a  slope  into  another  column  of  his  own  kind. 
Here  he  freed  himself  little  by  little,  scraping 
off  the  minute  fighting  browns  with  the  help  of 
two  very  small  workers,  whose  jaws,  being  much 
less  in  size,  were  better  able  to  grip  the  diminu- 
tive furies.  Their  assistance  was  half-hearted, 
and  the  odor  of  the  dead  and  dying  pygmies 
was  distinctly  disliked  by  them.  They  were  ap- 
parently well  aware  of  the  capabilities  of  these 
small  cousins,  and  held  them  in  high  respect. 
This  outburst  of  successful  defense  on  the 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  233 

part  of  the  small  ants  was  unexpected.  I 
glanced  back  at  their  hill  and  saw  them  uncon- 
cernedly piling  up  grains  as  if  nothing  had  oc- 
curred to  disturb  them.  I  wondered  if,  with 
senses  perfectly  attuned,  with  an  enlarging- 
glass  ability  of  observation,  one  might  not  find 
still  lesser  communities  which  would  in  their 
turn  consider  the  little  brown  ants  as  giants, 
and  on  the  space  of  a  pin's  head  attack  them 
and  fly  at  their  throats. 

A  species  of  silvery-gray  ant  which  was  abun- 
dant in  the  glade  was  an  object  of  special 
enmity,  and  even  after  one  of  these  was  killed 
and  being  carried  along,  passing  army  ants 
would  rush  up  and  give  it  a  vicious,  unnecessary 
nip.  One  such  ant  made  its  escape  from  the 
hold  of  a  small  worker;  but  before  it  had  taken 
ten  steps  it  was  actually  buried  under  a  rolling 
mass  of  army  ants.  The  flying  leap  with  which 
these  athletes  make  their  tackle  would  delight 
the  heart  of  any  football  coach,  although  their 
succeeding  activities  belong  rather  to  savage 
warfare.  Termites,  or  so-called  white  ants,  are, 
curiously  enough,  immune  from  attack.  Yet 
these  slow-moving,  fat-bodied  creatures  would 
seem  first-rate  food,  and  the  fight  which  they 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

could  put  up  would  not  stand  an  instant  before 
a  concerted  rush  of  battling  army  ants.  The 
saving  character  is  doubtless  odor  or  taste.  I 
dropped  a  tunnelful  of  these  insects  in  the  path 
of  the  army  ants  and  they  were  quite  ignored, 
although  the  black-and-white-headed  fellows 
were  terribly  angry  and  excited. 

I  coveted  a  small  beetle  of  peculiar  pattern 
which  the  ants  were  hurrying  along,  and  in  tak- 
ing it  from  them  I  accidentally  cut  an  army  ant 
in  two.  His  abdomen  rolled  down  a  small  slope 
and  caused  considerable  panic  among  his  fellows. 
They  formed  a  ring  round  it  and  waved  their 
antennae  in  mid-air,  the  scent  of  the  blood  of 
their  own  kind  causing  them  to  forget  hurry  and 
burdens  and  their  normal  activities.  The  front 
part  of  the  ant  seemed  but  little  inconvenienced 
and  endeavored  to  seize  and  carry  the  load  it 
had  dropped.  Little  by  little  it  began  to  realize 
that  all  was  not  right,  and  after  one  or  two  at- 
tempts to  turn  and  investigate,  it  ran  rapidly 
down  the  trail.  I  made  a  dab  at  it  to  put  it 
out  of  what  seems  better  called  inconvenience 
than  misery,  but  succeeded  only  in  bisecting  the 
thorax,  so  that  there  remained  the  head  and 
front  pair  of  legs.  These  lost  nothing  in  activ- 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  235 

ity,  and  by  means  of  the  single  pair  of  legs  the 
head  rowed  itself  rapidly  along,  its  antennae  twid- 
dling vigorously  those  of  every  ant  it  met.  This 
was  uncanny,  a  little  too  much,  and  I  ground 
the  fraction  of  ant  to  powder.  No  wonder  the 
army  ant  is  such  a  virile  creature,  endowed 
with  the  most  extreme  emotions,  when,  with 
such  a  small  section  of  its  anatomy  remaining 
it  can  continue  to  show  such  astounding  activity. 

One  could  study  for  hours  the  interactions 
among  the  army  ants  themselves.  More  than 
once  I  saw  a  good-sized  ant  transporting  one  of 
its  fellows,  exactly  as  it  would  carry  a  bit  of 
booty.  I  tried  to  examine  this  ant,  and  to  my 
surprise,  both  attacked  me  ferociously.  The  one 
which  was  carried  was  neither  dead,  ill,  nor  dis- 
abled, but  very  much  alive.  I  cannot  even 
suggest  an  explanation  of  this  phenomenon,  as 
it  did  not  seem  an  attempt  to  aid  a  comrade 
in  distress. 

As  dusk  began  to  settle  down,  I  found  a 
column  of  ants  which  must  have  discovered  and 
sacked  the  city  of  some  stranger  ants.  They 
were  laden  with  ant-booty:  eggs,  larvae,  and 
dead  ants  by  the  hundred.  It  was  comprehen- 
sible, but  what  I  did  not  at  first  understand  was 


236  JUNGLE  PEACE 

a  dense  line  of  ants  moving  solidly  in  one  direc- 
tion, all  laden  with  large  eggs  and  immature 
ants,  which  they  were  carrying  with  great  care. 
A  large  number  of  the  huge  soldiers  patrolled 
the  outer  flanks  of  the  column,  more  than  I  had 
seen  with  all  the  other  traffic  lines  together.  I 
realized  at  last  that  I  was  looking  at  an  actual 
moving  of  a  portion  of  the  army  ant  household 
itself.  It  was  guarded  and  transported  with  all 
the  care  of  which  these  insects  were  capable. 
The  infant  ants  rested  safely  in  the  great  jaws, 
the  same  jaws  which  all  day  had  been  busy  slash- 
ing and  biting  and  tearing,  and  carrying  food 
for  these  same  infants. 

And  now  the  tropical  night  began  to  close 
down  and  I  made  my  way  back  to  the  sand- 
pit. The  last  of  the  columns  was  making  its 
way  out,  systematically  from  the  bottom  up, 
each  ant  following  in  turn.  The  moment  the 
last  bit  of  prey  passed  up  the  column,  by  some 
wonderfully  delicate  and  subtile  sense,  every  ant 
knew  of  it,  and  the  corduroy  rose,  the  hand- 
rails un jointed  themselves,  the  ropes  unspliced, 
the  embankments  dislodged  of  their  own  volition, 
and  stepping-stones  took  to  themselves  legs. 
After  hours  of  total  inactivity,  these  sentient 


WITH  ARMY  ANTS  237 

paraphernalia  of  the  via  formica  became,  once 
more,  beings  surcharged  with  ceaseless  move- 
ment, alert  and  ready  to  become  a  useful  cog 
in  the  next  movement  of  this  myriad-minded 
machine.  I  jumped  down  into  the  pit.  The 
great  gold-spotted  toad  stretched  and  scratched 
himself,  looked  at  me,  and  trembled  his  throat. 
I  was  not  an  army  ant!  The  millipede  cau- 
tiously reared  its  head  from  the  sand  and  felt 
timidly  about. 

I  looked  out  and  saw  the  last  of  the  mighty 
army  disappearing  into  the  undergrowth.  I 
listened  and  heard  no  chirp  of  cricket,  nor  voice 
of  any  insect  in  the  glade.  Silence  brooded, 
significant  of  wholesale  death.  Only  at  my  feet 
two  ants  still  moved,  a  small  worker  and  a  great 
white-headed  soldier.  Both  had  been  badly  dis- 
abled in  the  struggles  in  the  pit,  and  now  vainly 
sought  to  surmount  even  the  first  step  of  the 
lofty  cliff.  They  had  been  ruthlessly  deserted. 
The  rearing  of  new  hosts  was  too  easy  a  matter 
for  nature  to  have  evolved  anything  like  stretch- 
ers or  a  Red  Cross  service  among  these  social 
beings.  The  impotence  of  these  two,  struggling 
in  the  dusk,  only  emphasized  the  terrible  vitality 
of  their  distant  fellows.  As  the  last  twilight 


238'  JUNGLE  PEACE 

of  day  dimmed,  I  saw  the  twain  still  bravely 
striving,  and  now  the  toad  was  watching  them 
intently.  A  poor-me-one  called  mournfully 
from  a  distance,  and  I  walked  slowly  toward 
home. 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE 

•r- 

WITHIN  five  minutes  the  daily  downpour  of 
tropical  rain  would  drench  the  jungle.  At  this 
moment  the  air  was  tense  with  electricity,  abso- 
lutely motionless,  and  saturated  with  odorous 
moisture.  The  voices  of  all  the  wild  creatures 
were  hushed.  The  sense  of  mystery  which  is  al- 
ways so  dominant  in  a  tropical  jungle  seemed 
nearer,  more  vital,  but  more  than  ever  a  mys- 
tery. Its  insistency  made  one  oblivious  of  the 
great  heat.  The  beating  of  one's  heart  became 
a  perceptible  sound,  absurdly  loud.  All  the 
swamp  and  jungle  seemed  listening  to  it. 

Suddenly  a  voice  came  out  of  the  heart  of 
this  mystery,  and  fittingly  enough,  the  voice 
seemed  something  a  little  more  or  less  than  hu- 
man, and  also  fittingly  it  uttered  but  a  single 
word,  and  that  word  a  question.  And  the  listener 
realized  that  the  answer  to  the  question  was  the 
only  thing  which  made  life  and  work  worth 

239 


240  JUNGLE  PEACE 

while.  The  throb  of  the  blood  in  his  veins  was 
forgotten,  and  all  his  senses  reached  out  to  the 
sights  and  sounds  and  scents  about  him.  And 
again  the  great  black  frog  called  from  its  slimy 
seat  hidden  in  the  still  blacker  water  of  the 
jungle  swamp.  Its  voice  was  deep,  guttural, 
and  a  little  inhuman,  but  it  asked  as  plainly  as 
any  honest  man  could  ask,  Wh — y?  And  after 
a  minute,  Wh — y? 

I  squatted  in  the  center  of  a  trail.  Within 
walking  distance  behind  me  flowed  the  yellow 
waters  of  the  Amazon,  and  the  igarape  from 
which  the  frog  had  called  was  even  now  feeling 
the  tidal  heave  of  the  ocean.  Ahead,  the  jungle 
stretched  without  a  break  for  three  thousand 
miles  or  more.  And  here  for  a  week  I  had  suf- 
fered bodily  torture,  twisting  into  unhappy  posi- 
tions for  hours  at  a  time,  watching  the  birds 
which  crowded  the  berry-laden  foliage  of  a  sin- 
gle jungle  tree.  In  the  cool  of  early  morning, 
throughout  the  terrible  breathless  heat  of  mid- 
day and  the  drenching  downpour  of  afternoon, 
the  frog  and  I  put  our  questions.  There  was 
hope  in  our  interrogation.  And  my  five  senses 
all  gave  aid,  and  my  hand  wrote  down  facts, 
and  my  mind  pondered  them. 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE 

In  the  very  suburbs  of  Para,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  great  Amazon  and  within  a  hundred  miles 
of  the  equator,  I  found  a  Mecca  of  bird-life. 
It  was  a  gastronomic  Mecca  to  be  sure,  a  tall, 
slender,  wild  cinnamon  tree, — canella  do  matto 
the  natives  called  it.  For  a  full  week  I  invited 
torture  by  attempting  to  study  the  bird-life  of 
this  single  tree.  This  thing  had  not  been  done 
before;  it  might  not  be  worth  the  doing.  But 
testing  such  possibilities  are  as  important  to  a 
naturalist's  work  as  following  along  the  more 
conventional  and  consequently  more  certain 
lines  of  investigation.  I  had  no  time  for  ex- 
ploration of  the  surrounding  country;  so  I  had 
determined  to  risk  all  my  precious  hours  upon 
intensive  observation  in  one  spot. 

The  century  before,  a  plantling  had  pushed 
up  through  the  jungle  mold  and  had  won  suc- 
cess in  the  terrible  competition  of  the  tropics— 
the  helpless,  motionless,  silent  strife  of  the  vege- 
table folk.  Year  by  year  the  lichen-sculptured 
trunk  had  pushed  its  way  upward  toward  light 
and  air,  miraculously  saved  from  the  deadly  em- 
braces of  the  lianas  which  crawled  forever 
through  the  jungle.  Today  it  had  gained  an 
accepted  place.  Although  no  forest  giant,  with 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

no  great  buttresses  or  masses  of  parasitic 
growths,  it  held  up  its  branches  and  twigs  in 
full  sunlight  a  hundred  feet  or  more  above  the 
ground.  And  its  twiggy  fingers  were  laden 
with  a  wonderful  harvest  of  fruit,  uncounted 
berries  which  attracted  the  birds  from  distant 
roosts  and  drinking  places. 

Here,  then,  a  thousand  combinations  of  fate 
had  led  me,  and  here  I  suffered  day  by  day. 
Bound  to  the  earth  like  other  normal  men,  my 
eyes  should  have  been  directed  forward.  Now 
I  forced  them  upward  for  hours  at  a  time,  and 
all  the  muscles  of  neck  and  shoulders  revolted. 
Then  eyestrain  and  headache  and  a  touch  of 
fever  followed,  and  I  cast  about  for  means  to 
ameliorate  my  bodily  ills.  I  dragged  a  canvas 
steamer  chair  to  my  place  of  vigil  and  all  my 
body  was  grateful. 

In  memory,  there  now  remain  only  the  high 
lights  of  new  discoveries,  the  colorful  moments 
of  unalloyed  realization  of  success.  Neverthe- 
less this  new  method  of  tropical  work  brought 
its  own  new  delights  and  trials.  One  joy  lay 
in  the  very  difficulties  to  be  overcome.  Every 
sense  came  into  play.  Sight,  first  and  foremost, 
had  been  put  to  the  most  severe  of  tests  in  at- 


Canella  do  Matto—the  Tree  of  the  Birds 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  243 

tempting  to  record  the  happenings  against  the 
glare  of  the  sky  high  up  among  the  foliage  of 
this  bit  of  jungle.  I  strained  through  my  high- 
power  glasses,  until,  when  I  looked  without 
them,  the  world  seemed  withdrawn,  dwarfed, 
as  in  the  horrid  imaginings  of  fever.  The  glasses 
gained  in  weight  as  I  held  them  pointing  verti- 
cally until  they  fairly  dropped  from  my  aching 
arms.  My  ears  strove  to  catch  every  song,  every 
note  which  might  prove  a  character  of  worth. 
The  jungle  scents  played  upon  my  emotions 
and  sometimes  dominated  my  work;  the  faint 
aroma  from  some  invisible  orchid  overhead,  the 
telltale  musk  from  a  passing  mammal,  the 
healthful  scent  of  clean  jungle  mold.  As  for 
taste,  I  had  tested  the  aromatic  berries  and 
fruit  of  my  canella  tree,  and  for  science'  sake 
had  proved  two  warningly  colored  insects.  My 
sense  of  feeling  had  operated  involuntarily 
and  wholly  aside  from  my  scientific  desires. 
Whether  stimulated  by  dozens  of  mosquitoes, 
scores  of  ants,  or  hundreds  of  betes  rouges  or 
"  mucuims,"  the  insistency  of  discomfort  never 
discouraged  a  primary  desire  to  delve  as  deeply 
as  possible  into  the  secrets  of  this  small  area 
of  tropical  jungle. 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

As  I  walked  slowly  about  beneath  the  tree  or 
lay  back  resting  in  the  chair,  I  seemed  to  be 
watching  creatures  of  another  world.  Whether 
I  ogled  them  with  glasses  or  now  and  then 
brought  one  down  with  a  charge  of  small  shot,  I 
was  a  thing  of  no  account  to  the  berry-eating 
flocks  high  overhead.  A  vulture  soaring  lower 
than  usual  passed  over  the  tree,  and  the  shadow 
of  his  partial  eclipse  of  the  sun  froze  every  bird 
to  instant  silence  and  complete  immobility.  But 
my  terrestrial  activities  wrought  no  excitement. 
The  shot  whistled  through  the  foliage,  one  of 
their  number  dropped  from  sight,  and  life  for 
the  rest  went  on  without  a  tremor.  To  ances- 
tral generations,  danger  had  come  always  from 
above,  not  below. 

The  very  difficulty  of  observation  rendered 
this  mode  of  research  full  of  excitement,  and  at 
the  same  time  made  my  method  of  work  very 
simple.  Against  the  sky,  green,  blue,  or  black 
feathers  all  appear  black,  and  the  first  two  days 
my  glasses  helped  but  little.  For  several  min- 
utes I  would  watch  some  tiny  bird  which  might 
have  been  a  yellow  warbler  had  I  been  three 
thousand  miles  farther  north.  After  memoriz- 
ing personal  characters,  scrutinizing  its  flight 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  245 

and  method  of  feeding,  striving  to  fix  its  indi- 
viduality, I  would  secure  the  bird,  and  find  in 
all  probability  that  it  was  a  calliste,  or  tanager 
of  brilliant  plumage.  Tomorrow,  if  I  were 
lucky,  I  might  be  able  to  tell  off  the  numbers 
of  this  species,  to  watch  them  and  to  know 
that  I  was  watching  them.  But  recognition 
would  not  be  by  way  of  the  cerulean  or  topaz 
or  amethystine  hues  of  plumage,  but  by  the 
slight  idiosyncrasies  of  flirting  tail  or  wing  or 
of  general  carriage. 

Day  by  day,  as  I  came  to  know  better  the 
jungle  about  me,  I  began  to  perceive  a  phase 
which  did  not  change.  Even  when  the  sun 
shone  most  brightly,  when  the  coolness  of  early 
morning  had  not  yet  passed,  the  mood  of  the 
Amazon  jungle  remained.  It  was  consistent, 
this  low  swampy  jungle,  in  its  uniform,  somber 
mystery.  In  spite  of  wholesale  exaggeration 
it  was  the  dangers  which  came  to  mind.  Of  all 
places  in  the  world  this  was  probably  fullest  of 
life,  both  in  numbers  and  diversity.  Yet  it  was 
death — or  the  danger  of  death — which  seemed 
in  waiting,  always  just  concealed  from  view. 

Beneath  my  tree  I  squatted  silently.  Just 
overhead  the  foliage  might  have  been  almost 


246  JUNGLE  PEACE 

northern.  The  finely  cut  leaves  were  like  wil- 
low, and  at  one  side  an  oak,  unusual  but  still 
an  oak,  reached  out  a  thousand  thousand  mo- 
tionless leaves,  breaking  the  glare  into  innumer- 
able patches.  But  ahead,  the  terrible  interlacing 
of  vines  and  thorny  ropes,  the  strangle-hold  of 
serpentine  lianas  on  every  available  trunk — all 
this  could  be  only  tropic. 

The  ground  glistened  here  and  there  with  a 
film  of  black  water  which  revealed  the  swamp. 
Everywhere  the  mold  and  leaves  of  a  hundred 
years  lay  scattered,  the  last  fallen  still  green. 
Many  feet  above,  great  fans  dangled,  rayed 
fronds  dry  and  crackling,  fallen  from  high  over- 
head, and  suspended,  waiting  for  the  interfer- 
ing twigs  and  foliage  to  die  in  turn  and  permit 
them  to  seek  dissolution  in  the  mold. 

The  jungle  was  bright  with  flowers,  but  it 
was  a  sinister  brightness — a  poisonous,  threaten- 
ing flash  of  pigment,  set  off  by  the  blackness 
of  the  shadows.  Heliconia  spikes  gleamed  like 
fixed  scarlet  lightning,  zigzagging  through  the 
pungent  air.  Now  and  then  a  bunch  of  pleas- 
ing, warm-hued  berries  reminded  one  of  innocu- 
ous currants,  but  a  second  glance  showed  them 
ripening  into  swollen,  livcr-hued  globes  which 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  247 

offered  no  temptation  to  taste.  One  tree  dan- 
gled hideous  purple  cups  filled  with  vermilion 
fruits,  and  not  far  away  the  color  sequence  was 
reversed.  A  low-growing,  pleasant-leaved  plant 
lifted  bursting  masses  of  purple-black,  all  drip- 
ping like  wounds  upon  the  foliage  below.  Many 
flowers  were  unrecognizable  save  by  their  fra- 
grance and  naked  stamens,  advertised  neither  by 
color  nor  form  of  blossom.  I  despaired  of  flow- 
ers worthy  of  the  name,  until  close  by  my  foot  I 
saw  a  tiny  plant  with  a  comely,  sweet-scented 
blossom,  grateful  to  the  eye  and  beautiful  as 
our  northern  blooms  are  beautiful.  The  leaf 
was  like  scores  lying  about,  and  I  realized  that 
this  was  a  sproutling  of  the  giant  tree.  Nothing 
but  the  death  of  this  monster  could  give  the 
light  and  air  which  the  little  plant  needed.  It 
was  doomed,  but  it  had  performed  its  destiny. 
It  had  hinted  that  much  of  the  beauty  of  the 
jungle  lay  far  above  the  mold  and  stagnant 
water.  And  then  I  remembered  the  orchids 
high  overhead.  And  the  realization  came  that 
the  low-growing  blooms  needed  their  glaring 
colors  to  outshine  the  dim,  shadowy  under- 
jungle,  and  their  nauseous  fumes  to  outscent 
the  musky  vapors  of  decay. 


248  JUNGLE  PEACE 

The  plants  of  the  jungle  won  success  either 
by  elbowing  their  neighbors  and  fighting  their 
path  up  to  sunlight,  or  else  by  adapting  their 
needs  to  the  starvation  meed  of  air  and  light 
allotted  to  the  lowly  growths.  The  big-leaved 
churacas  had  found  another  means  of  existence. 
They  lived  like  permanent  rockets,  bursting  in 
mid-air.  A  long,  curved  stem  shot  up  and 
reached  far  out  into  space.  It  was  so  slender 
as  to  be  almost  invisible  in  the  dim  light.  At 
its  tip  radiated  a  great  burst  of  foliage,  leaves 
springing  out  in  all  directions,  and  absorbing 
nutrition  which  a  sapling  growing  amid  the 
undergrowth  could  not  possibly  do. 

From  daybreak  to  dark  the  canella  tree  was 
seldom  deserted.  Usually  a  score  or  more  birds 
fluttered  and  fed  among  its  branches,  and  true 
to  tropic  laws,  there  were  comparatively  few 
individuals  but  a  multitude  of  species.  In  the 
few  hours  I  was  able  to  devote  to  its  study,  I 
identified  seventy-six  different  kinds,  and  to- 
gether with  those  which  I  saw  but  could  not 
name,  I  judge  that  more  than  a  hundred  species 
must  have  come  to  the  berries  during  that  week 
in  early  May.  The  first  day  I  secured  sixteen 
specimens,  all  different;  and  the  following  day 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  249 

yielded  fourteen  more,  only  one  of  which  was  a 
duplicate  of  the  first  day's  results. 

The  bird  visitors  to  the  tree  arrived  in  one 
of  two  characteristic  ways.  Many  came  direct 
and  swiftly,  singly  or  in  pairs,  flying  straight 
and  with  decision.  These  came  from  a  distance, 
with  full  knowledge  of  the  berries.  They  fed 
quietly,  and  when  satiated  flew  off.  The  second 
method .  of  arrival  was  wholly  casual, — loose 
flocks  drifting  slowly  from  the  neighboring  jun- 
gle, sifting  into  the  tree,  and  feeding  for  a  time 
before  passing  on.  When  these  left  it  was 
rather  hastily,  and  in  answer  to  the  chirps  and 
calls  of  the  members  of  their  flock  who  had  not 
been  beguiled  by  the  berries  and  hence  had 
forged  steadily  ahead. 

These  more  or  less  well-defined  flocks  are 
very  characteristic  of  all  tropical  jungles.  Little 
assemblages  of  flycatchers,  callistes,  tanagers, 
antbirds,  manakins,  woodhewers,  and  woodpeck- 
ers are  drawn  together  by  some  intangible  but 
very  social  instinct.  Day  after  day  they  unite  in 
these  fragile  fraternities  which  drift  along,  glean- 
ing from  leaves,  flowers,  branches,  trunks,  or 
ground,  each  bird  according  to  its  structure  and 
way  of  life.  They  are  so  held  together  by  an 


250  JUNGLE  PEACE 

intangible  gregarious  instinct  that  day  after  day 
the  same  heterogeneous  flock  may  be  observed, 
identifiable  by  peculiarities  of  one  or  several  of 
its  members.  The  only  recognizable  bond  is 
vocal — a  constant  low  calling;  half  unconscious, 
absent-minded  little  signals  which  keep  the  mem- 
bers in  touch  with  one  another,  spurring  on  the 
laggards,  retarding  the  overswift. 

While  I  watched,  there  came  to  my  tree  a 
single  species  of  pigeon,  two  hawks,  and  two 
parrots,  four  hummingbirds,  and  an  equal  num- 
ber of  toucans  and  woodpeckers.  The  remain- 
ing fifty-nine  were  all  passerine  birds,  of  which 
there  were  eight  each  of  the  families  of  fly- 
catchers, manakins,  and  cotingas.  Eleven  were 
tanagers. 

The  greedy,  noisy  parrakeets  were  always 
the  center  of  commotion,  wasting  more  berries 
than  they  ate.  The  toucans,  those  bizarre  birds 
of  whose  lives  we  know  so  little,  yelped  and 
called  and  bathed  in  the  water  caught  in  the 
stubs  of  branches,  and  fed  to  repletion.  All  the 
flycatchers  forgot  their  usual  diet  and  took  to 
berrying  as  ardently  as  the  tanagers  themselves. 
Not  all  the  birds  came  to  feed  on  the  berries. 
A  wren  hunted  insects  among  the  branches,  and 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  251 

a  hawk  found  a  giant  snail  crawling  up  the 
trunk  and  devoured  it.  The  insect-eaters  of  the 
trunk  numbered  nine  and  showed  no  interest  in 
the  berries.  Two  were  woodpeckers  and  seven 
woodhewers. 

These  latter  are  a  strange  tropical  family 
four  hundred  strong,  and  all  the  very  essence 
of  protective  coloring.  Their  habits  of  life  make 
of  them  wandering  bits  of  bark,  easy  to  detect 
when  they  are  in  motion,  but  vanishing  utterly 
when  they  are  quiet.  Their  similarity  in  dress 
is  remarkable.  They  may  be  large  or  small, 
short  or  long-tailed,  with  beaks  blunt,  sharp, 
straight,  curved,  thick,  or  needle-pointed.  In 
these  characters  they  differ;  by  these  points 
they  must  know  one  another.  But  their  colors 
are  almost  identical.  Their  olives  or  browns 
invariably  warm  into  rich  foxy  rufous  on  wings 
and  tail,  while  over  head  and  shoulders  a  shower 
of  light  streaks  has  fallen,  bits  of  sunlight  fixed 
in  down. 

Further  details  belong  to  the  literature  of  orni- 
thology. But  the  colors  of  the  berry-hunters — 
these  baffle  description,  yet  we  cannot  pass  them 
by  in  silence.  The  blood  and  orange  splashed 
on  black  of  the  toucans,  the  scarlet  and  yellow 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

of  woodpeckers,  the  soft  greens  and  buffs  of  fly- 
catchers, all  these  paled  when  a  flock  of  mana- 
kins  or  tanagers  or  honeycreepers  came  to  the 
tree.  Every  precious  stone  found  its  counter- 
part in  the  metallic  hues  of  these  exquisite 
feathered  folk. 

The  glory  of  all  was  the  opal-crowned  mana- 
kin,  a  midget  in  green  coat  and  sulphur  waist- 
coat, with  a  cap  of  scaly,  iridescent,  silvery 
mother-of-pearl  plates,  in  no  way  akin  to 
feathers.  Until  now  the  life  of  this  Hop  o'  my 
Thumb,  like  those  of  all  his  ancestors,  had  gone 
smoothly  on,  with  never  a  human  to  admire,  to 
wonder,  and  vainly  to  echo  the  question  of  the 
great  black  frog,  Wh — y? 

On  the  last  day  of  my  stay  I  walked  slowly 
up  the  trail  toward  the  canella  do  matto.  For 
the  last  time  I  strained  upward  at  the  well- 
known  branches,  and  with  the  very  movement 
there  came  the  voice  of  the  swamp.  Its  tone 
was  insistent,  with  a  tinge  of  accusation,  a  note 
of  censure.  Wh — y?  and  after  a  little  time, 
Wh— y? 

I  looked  about  me  despairingly.  What  had 
I  learned  after  all?  Was  there  any  clearing  up 
of  the  mystery  of  the  jungle?  Had  my  week 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  253 

of  scrutiny  brought  me  any  closer  to  the  real 
intimacies  of  evolution?  Or — evading  these 
questions  for  the  time — was  there  nothing  I 
could  do  in  the  few  precious  moments  left? 

In  five  minutes  I  should  turn  my  back  on 
all  this  wildness,  this  jungle  seething  with  pro- 
found truths,  and  great  solutions  within  arm's 
reach.  I  should  pass  to  the  ocean  where  monot- 
ony compels  introspection,  and  finally  to  the 
great  center  of  civilization  where  the  veneer  cov- 
ers up  all  truths. 

Even  if  my  studies  had  taught  only  the  les- 
son of  the  tremendous  insurgence  of  life,  could 
I  not  emphasize  this,  make  it  a  more  com- 
pelling factor  to  be  considered  in  future  efforts 
toward  the  frog's  question  and  mine? 

My  eyes  left  the  foliage  overhead  and  sought 
the  ground.  Acting  on  impulse,  I  brought  from 
my  camping  stores  an  empty  war-bag,  and 
scraped  together  an  armful  of  leaves,  sticks, 
moss,  earth,  mold  of  all  sorts.  Four  square 
feet  of  jungle  debris  went  into  my  bag,  and  I 
shouldered  it. 

Then  I  said  adieu  to  my  trail  and  my  tree — a 
sorrowful  leave-taking,  as  is  always  my  misfor- 
tune. For  the  bonds  which  bind  me  to  a  place 


254  JUNGLE  PEACE 

or  a  person  are  not  easily  broken.  And,  as 
usual  when  the  trail  passed  from  view,  the 
ideal  alone  remained.  The  thoughts  of  mos- 
quitoes, of  drenchings,  of  hours  of  breathless 
disappointed  waiting,  all  sank  in  the  memory  of 
the  daily  discoveries,  the  mental  delights  of  new 
research. 

A  week  later,  when  the  sky-line  was  unbroken 
by  land,  when  a  long  ground-swell  waved  but 
did  not  disturb  the  deep  blue  of  the  open  sea, 
I  unlaced  my  bag  of  jungle  mold.  Armed  with 
forceps,  lens,  and  vials  I  began  my  search.  For 
days  I  had  gazed  upward;  now  my  scrutiny 
was  directed  downward.  With  binoculars  I  had 
scanned  without  ceasing  the  myriad  leaves  of  a 
great  tree;  now  with  lens  or  naked  eye  I  sought 
for  life  or  motion  on  single  fallen  leaves  and 
dead  twigs.  When  I  studied  the  life  of  the 
great  tree  I  was  in  the  land  of  Brobdingnag; 
now  I  was  verily  a  Gulliver  in  Lilliput.  The 
cosmos  in  my  war-bag  teemed  with  mystery  as 
deep  and  as  inviting  as  any  in  the  jungle  itself. 

When  I  began  work  I  knew  little  of  what  I 
should  find.  My  vague  thoughts  visualized  ants 
and  worms,  and  especially  I  anticipated  un- 
earthing myriads  of  the  unpleasant  "  mucuims  " 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  255 

or  betes  rouges,  whose  hosts  had  done  all  in  their 
power  to  make  life  in  the  jungle  unhappy. 

Day  by  day  my  vials  increased.  Scores  of 
creatures  evaded  my  search;  many  others,  of 
whose  kind  I  had  captured  a  generous  number, 
I  allowed  to  escape. 

My  lilliputian  census  was  far  from  the  mere 
aggregation  of  ants  and  worms  which  I  had  an- 
ticipated, and  a  review  of  the  whole  showed 
that  hardly  any  great  group  of  living  creatures 
was  unrepresented. 

As  hinting  of  the  presence  of  wild  animals,  a 
bunch  of  rufous  hairs  had  in  some  way  been 
tweaked  from  a  passing  agouti.  Man  himself 
was  represented  in  the  shape  of  two  wads  which 
had  dropped  from  my  gun-shots  some  time  dur- 
ing the  week.  One  had  already  begun  to  dis- 
integrate and  sheltered  half  a  dozen  diminutive 
creatures.  Five  feathers  were  the  indications  of 
birds,  two  of  which  were  brilliant  green  plumes 
from  a  calliste.  Of  reptiles  there  was  a  broken 
skull  of  some  lizard,  long  since  dead,  and  the 
eggshell  of  a  lizardling  which  had  hatched  and 
gone  forth  upon  his  mission  into  the  jungle. 
A  third  reptilian  trace  may  have  been  his  neme- 
sis— a  bit  of  shed  snake-skin.  The  group  of 


256  JUNGLE  PEACE 

amphibians  was  present  even  in  this  square  of 
four  feet — a  very  tiny,  dried,  black,  and  wholly 
unrecognizable  little  frog.  Fishes  were  absent, 
though  from  my  knees  as  I  scraped  up  the 
debris,  I  could  almost  have  seen  a  little  igarape 
in  which  dwelt  scores  of  minnows. 

As  I  delved  deeper  and  examined  the  mold 
more  carefully  for  the  diminutive  inhabitants,  I 
found  that  this  thin  film  from  the  floor  of 
the  jungle  appeared  to  have  several  layers,  each 
with  its  particular  fauna.  The  upper  layer  was 
composed  of  recently  fallen  leaves,  nuts,  seeds, 
and  twigs,  dry  and  quite  fresh.  Here  were 
colonies  of  small  ants  and  huge,  solitary  ones; 
here  lived  in  hiding  small  moths  and  beetles 
and  bugs,  awaiting  dusk  to  fly  forth  through 
the  jungle.  The  middle  layer  was  by  far  the 
most  important,  and  in  it  lived  four  fifths  of  all 
the  small  folk.  The  lowest  layer  was  one  of 
matted  roots  and  clayey  soil  and  its  animal  life 
was  meager. 

Between  the  upper  and  the  middle  strata  were 
sprouting  nuts  and  seeds,  with  their  blanched 
roots  threaded  downward  into  the  rich  dark 
mold,  and  the  greening  cotyledons  curling  up- 
ward toward  light  and  warmth.  Thus  had  the 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  857 

great  bird-filled  canella  begun  its  life.  In  my 
war-bag  were  a  score  of  potential  forest  giants 
doomed  to  death  in  the  salt  ocean.  But  for  my 
efforts  toward  the  Wh — y,  their  fate  might  have 
been  very  different. 

Some  of  the  half-decayed  leaves  were  very 
beautiful.  Vistas  of  pale,  bleached  fungus  lace 
trailed  over  the  rich  mahogany -colored  tissues, 
studded  here  and  there  with  bits  of  glistening, 
transparent  quartz.  Here  I  had  many  hints  of 
a  world  of  life  beyond  the  power  of  the  unaided 
eye.  And  here  too  the  grosser  fauna  scram- 
bled, hopped,  or  wriggled.  Everywhere  were 
tiny  chrysalides  and  cocoons,  many  empty. 
Now  and  then  a  plaque  of  eggs,  almost  micro- 
scopic, showed  veriest  pin-pricks  where  still 
more  minute  parasites  had  made  their  escape. 
When  one  contracted  the  field  of  vision  to  this 
world  where  leaves  were  fields  and  fungi  loomed 
as  forests,  competition,  the  tragedies,  the  mys- 
tery lessened  not  at  all.  Minute  seeds  mimicked 
small  beetles  in  shape  and  in  exquisite  tracery 
of  patterns.  Bits  of  bark  simulated  insects,  a 
patch  of  fungus  seemed  a  worm,  while  the  mites 
themselves  were  invisible  until  they  moved. 
Here  and  there  I  discovered  a  lifeless  boulder  of 


258  JUNGLE  PEACE 

emerald  or  turquoise — the  metallic  cuirass  of 
some  long-dead  beetle. 

Some  of  the  scenes  which  appeared  as  I 
picked  over  the  mold,  suddenly  unfolding  after 
an  upheaval  of  debris,  were  like  Aladdin's  cave. 
Close  to  the  eye  appeared  great  logs  and 
branches  protruding  in  confusion  from  a  heaped 
up  bank  of  diamonds.  Brown,  yellow,  orange, 
and  white  colors  played  over  the  scene;  and  now 
over  a  steep  hill  came  a  horrid,  ungainly  creature 
with  enormous  proboscis,  eight  legs,  and  a  shin- 
ing, liver-colored  body,  spotted  with  a  sickly 
hue  of  yellow.  It  was  studded  with  short,  stiff, 
horny  hairs — a  mite  by  name,  but  under  the 
lens  a  terrible  monster.  I  put  some  of  these 
on  my  arm,  to  see  if  they  were  the  notorious 
"  mucuims  "  which  tortured  us  daily.  Under 
the  lens  I  saw  the  hideous  creature  stop  in  its 
awkward  progress,  and  as  it  prepared  to  sink  its 
proboscis  I  involuntarily  flinched,  so  fearful  a 
thing  seemed  about  to  happen. 

The  lesser  organisms  defy  description.  They 
are  nameless  except  in  the  lists  of  specialists, 
and  indeed  most  are  of  new,  quite  unnamed 
forms.  The  only  social  insects  were  small  twig- 
fuls  of  ant  and  termite  colonies,  with  from  five 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  259 

to  fifteen  members.  All  others  were  isolated, 
scattered.  Life  here,  so  far  beneath  the  sun- 
light, is  an  individual  thing.  Flocks  and  herds 
are  unknown;  the  mob  has  no  place  here.  Each 
tiny  organism  must  live  its  life  and  meet  its 
fate  single-handed. 

Little  pseudo-scorpions  were  very  abundant, 
and  I  could  have  vialed  hundreds.  They  rushed 
out  excitedly  and,  unlike  all  the  other  little 
beings,  did  not  seek  to  hide.  Instead,  when  they 
were  disturbed,  they  sought  open  spaces,  walk- 
ing slowly  and  brandishing  and  feeling  ahead 
with  their  great  pincer-tipped  arms,  as  long  as 
their  entire  body.  When  irritated  or  frightened, 
they  scurried  backwards,  holding  up  their  chelae 
in  readiness. 

Mites  were  the  most  abundant  creatures, 
equaling  the  ants  in  number,  always  crawling 
slowly  along,  tumbling  over  every  obstacle  in 
their  path  and  feeling  their  way  awkwardly. 
Their  kinds  were  numerous,  all  villainous  in  ap- 
pearance. Ticks  were  less  common  but  equally 
repellant.  Small  spiders  and  beetles  were  occa- 
sionally found,  and  hundred-legged  wrigglers 
fled  to  shelter  at  every  turn  of  a  leaf.  The 
smallest  snails  in  the  world  crawled  slowly  about, 


260  JUNGLE  PEACE 

some  flat-shelled,  others  turreted.  Tiny  earth- 
worms, bright  red  and  very  active,  crept  slowly 
through  fungus  jungles  until  disturbed,  when 
they  became  an  amazingly  active  tangle  of 
twisting  curves,  dancing  all  about.  Simple  in- 
sects, which  we  shall  have  to  call  collembolas, 
were  difficult  to  capture.  They  leaped  with 
agility  many  times  their  own  length,  and  when 
quiescent  looked  like  bits  of  fungus.  As  for  the 
rest,  only  Adam  and  a  few  specialists  hidden  in 
museums  could  call  them  by  name.  They  were 
a  numerous  company,  some  ornamented  with 
weird  horns  and  fringes  and  patterns,  others 
long  of  legs  or  legless,  swift  of  foot  or  curling 
up  into  minute  balls  of  animate  matter. 

One  thing  was  evident  early  in  my  explora- 
tion: I  was  in  a  world  of  little  people.  No 
large  insects  were  in  any  of  the  debris.  The 
largest  would  be  very  small  in  comparison  with 
a  May  beetle.  And  another  thing  was  the  dura- 
bility of  chitin.  The  remains  of  beetles,  consid- 
ering the  rareness  of  living  ones,  were  remark- 
able. The  hard  wing-cases,  the  thorax  armor, 
the  segments  of  wasps,  eyeless  head  masks,  still 
remained  perfect  in  shape  and  vivid  in  color. 
Even  in  the  deepest  layers  where  all  else  had 


A  YARD  OF  JUNGLE  261 

disintegrated  and  returned  to  the  elements,  these 
shards  of  death  were  as  new. 

And  the  smell  of  the  mold,  keen  and  strong  as 
it  came  to  my  nostrils  an  inch  away — it  was  pun- 
gent, rich,  woody.  It  hinted  of  the  age-old 
dissolution,  century  after  century,  which  had 
been  going  on.  Leaves  had  fallen,  not  in  a  sud- 
den autumnal  downpour,  but  in  a  never-ending 
drift,  day  after  day,  month  after  month.  With 
a  daily  rain  for  moisture,  with  a  temperature 
of  three  figures,  for  the  quicker  increase  of  bac- 
teria, and  an  excess  of  humidity  to  foster  quick 
decay,  the  jungle  floor  was  indeed  a  laboratory 
of  vital  work — where  only  analytic  chemistry 
was  allowed  full  sway,  and  the  mystery  of  syn- 
thetic life  was  ever  handicapped,  and  ever  a 
mystery. 

Before  the  vessel  docked  I  had  completed  my 
task  and  had  secured  over  five  hundred  creatures 
of  this  lesser  cosmos.  At  least  twice  as  many 
remained,  but  when  I  made  my  calculations  I 
estimated  that  the  mold  had  sheltered  only  a 
thousand  organisms  plainly  visible  to  the  eye. 

And  when  I  had  corked  my  last  vial  and  the 
steward  had  removed  the  last  pile  of  shredded 
debris,  I  leaned  back  and  thought  of  the  thousand 


262  JUNGLE  PEACE 

creatures  in  my  scant  four  square  feet  of  mold. 
Then  there  came  to  mind  a  square  mile  of 
jungle  floor  with  its  thin  layer  of  fallen  leaves 
sheltering  more  than  six  billion  creatures.  Then 
I  recalled  the  three  thousand  straight  miles  of 
jungle  which  had  lain  west  of  me,  and  the  hun- 
dreds of  miles  of  wonderful  unbroken  forest 
north  and  south,  and  my  mind  became  a  blank. 
And  then  from  the  mist  of  unnamable  numerals, 
from  this  uncharted  arithmetical  census,  there 
came  to  memory  a  voice,  deep  and  guttural, — 
and  this  time  the  slow  enunciation  was  jeering, 
hopeless  of  answer,  Wh — y?  And  soon  after- 
wards, Wh — y?  And  I  packed  up  my  last  box 
of  vials  and  went  on  deck  to  watch  the  sunset. 


XI 
JUNGLE  NIGHT 

WITHIN  gun-reach  in  front  of  me  trudged 
my  little  Akawai  Indian  hunter.  He  turned 
his  head  suddenly,  his  ears  catching  some  sound 
which  mine  had  missed,  and  I  saw  that  his  pro- 
file was  rather  like  that  of  Dante.  Instantly 
the  thought  spread  and  the  simile  deepened. 
Were  we  two  not  all  alone?  and  this  unearthly 
hour  and  light — Then  I  chuckled  softly,  but  the 
silence  that  the  chuckle  shattered  shrank  away 
and  made  it  a  loud,  coarse  sound,  so  that  I  in- 
voluntarily drew  in  my  breath.  But  it  was 
really  amusing,  the  thought  of  Dante  setting  out 
on  a  hunt  for  kinkajous  and  giant  armadillos. 
Jeremiah  looked  at  me  wonderingly,  and  we 
went  on  in  silence.  And  for  the  next  mile 
Dante  vanished  from  my  thoughts  and  I  mused 
upon  the  sturdy  little  red  man.  Jeremiah  was 
his  civilized  name;  he  would  never  tell  me  his 
real  one.  It  seemed  so  unsuited  to  him  that  I 


264  JUNGLE  PEACE 

thought  up  one  still  less  appropriate  and  called 
him  Nupee — which  is  the  three-toed  sloth;  and 
in  his  quiet  way  he  saw  the  humor  of  it,  for  a 
more  agile  human  being  never  lived. 

Nupee's  face  was  unclouded,  but  his  position 
as  hunter  to  our  expedition  had  brought  deci- 
sions and  responsibilities  which  he  had  not 
known  before.  The  simple  life, — the  unruffled 
existence  in  the  little  open  benab,  with  hammock, 
cassava  field,  and  an  occasional  hunt, — this  was 
of  the  past.  A  wife  had  come,  slipping  quietly 
into  his  life,  Indian-fashion;  and  now,  before 
the  baby  arrived,  decisions  had  to  be  made. 
Nupee  longed  for  some  store  shoes  and  a  suit 
of  black  clothes.  He  had  owned  a  big  benab 
which  he  himself  had  built;  but  a  godmother, 
like  the  cowbird  in  a  warbler's  nest,  had  gradu- 
ally but  firmly  ousted  him  and  had  filled  it  with 
diseased  relatives,  so  that  it  was  unpleasant  to 
visit.  He  now,  to  my  knowledge,  owned  a 
single  shirt  and  a  pair  of  short  trousers. 

The  shoes  were  achieved.  I  detected  in  him 
qualities  which  I  knew  that  I  should  find  in  some 
one,  as  I  do  on  every  expedition,  and  I  made 
him  perform  some  unnecessary  labor  and  gave 
him  the  shoes.  But  the  clothes  would  cost  five 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  265 

dollars,  a  month's  wages,  and  he  had  promised 
to  get  married — white-fashion — in  another 
month,  and  that  would  consume  several  times 
five  dollars.  I  did  not  offer  to  help  him  decide. 
His  Akawai  marriage  ceremony  seemed  not 
without  honor,  and  as  for  its  sincerity — I  had 
seen  the  two  together.  But  my  lips  were  sealed. 
I  could  not  tell  him  that  a  recementing  of  the 
ritual  of  his  own  tribe  did  not  seem  quite  the 
equal  of  a  five-dollar  suit  of  clothes.  That 
was  a  matter  for  individual  decision. 

But  tonight  I  think  that  we  both  had  put  all 
our  worries  and  sorrows  far  away,  and  I  mem- 
ory as  well;  and  I  felt  sympathy  in  the  quiet, 
pliant  gait  which  carried  him  so  swiftly  over  the 
sandy  trail.  I  knew  Nupee  now  for  what  he 
was — the  one  for  whom  I  am  always  on  the  look- 
out, the  exceptional  one,  the  super-servant, 
worthy  of  friendship  as  an  equal.  I  had  seen  his 
uncle  and  his  cousins.  They  were  Indians,  noth- 
ing more.  Nupee  had  slipped  into  the  place 
left  vacant  for  a  time  by  Aladdin,  and  by  Satan 
and  Shimosaka,  by  Drojak  and  Trujillo — all 
exceptional,  all  faithful,  all  servants  first  and 
then  friends.  I  say  "  for  a  time,"  for  all  hoped, 
and  I  think  still  hope  with  me,  that  we  shall 


2661  JUNGLE  PEACE 

meet  and  travel  and  camp  together  again, 
whether  in  the  Cinghalese  thornbush,  or  Hima- 
layan daks,  in  Dyak  canoes  or  among  the  cam- 
phor groves  of  Sakarajama. 

Nupee  and  I  had  not  been  thrown  together 
closely.  This  had  proved  a  static  expedition, 
settled  in  one  place,  with  no  dangers  to  speak  of, 
no  real  roughing  it,  and  we  met  only  after  each 
hunting  trip.  But  the  magic  of  a  full  moon  had 
lured  me  from  my  laboratory  table,  and  here  we 
were,  we  two,  plodding  junglewards,  becoming 
better  acquainted  in  silence  than  I  have  often 
achieved  with  much  talk. 

It  was  nearly  midnight.  We  traversed  a 
broad  trail  of  white  sand,  between  lines  of  sap- 
lings of  pale-barked  rubber  trees,  flooded,  satu- 
rated, with  milky-gray  light.  Not  a  star  ap- 
peared in  the  cloudless  sky,  which,  in  contrast 
to  the  great  silver  moon-plaque,  was  blue-black, 
These  open  sandy  stretches,  so  recently  etched 
into  what  had  been  primitive  jungle,  were  too 
glowing  with  light  for  most  of  the  nocturnal 
creatures  who,  in  darkness,  flew  and  ran  and 
hunted  about  in  them.  And  the  lovers  of  twi- 
light were  already  come  and  gone.  The  stage 
was  vacant  save  for  one  actor — the  nighthawk 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  267 

of  the  silvery  collar,  whose  eerie  wheeeo!  or 
more  leisurely  and  articulate  who-are-you?  was 
queried  from  stump  and  log.  There  was  in  it 
the  same  liquid  tang,  the  virile  ringing  of  skates 
on  ice,  which  enriches  the  cry  of  the  whip-poor- 
will  in  our  country  lanes. 

Where  the  open  trail  skirted  a  hillside  we 
came  suddenly  upon  a  great  gathering  of  these 
goatsuckers,  engaged  in  some  strange  midnight 
revel.  Usually  they  roost  and  hunt  and  call  in 
solitude,  but  here  at  least  forty  were  collected 
on  the  white  sand  within  an  area  of  a  few  yards. 
We  stopped  and  watched.  They  were  dancing 
—or,  rather,  popping,  as  corn  pops  in  a  hopper. 
One  after  another,  or  a  half  dozen  at  a  time, 
they  bounced  up  a  foot  or  two  from  the  ground 
and  flopped  back,  at  the  instant  of  leaving  and 
returning  uttering  a  sudden,  explosive  wop! 
This  they  kept  up  unceasingly  for  the  five 
minutes  we  gave  to  them,  and  our  passage  in- 
terrupted them  for  only  a  moment.  Later  we 
passed  single  birds  which  popped  and  wopped  in 
solitary  state;  whether  practicing,  or  snobbishly 
refusing  to  perform  in  public,  only  they  could 
tell.  It  was  a  scene  not  soon  forgotten. 

Suddenly    before   us   rose    the   jungle,    raw- 


268  JUNGLE  PEACE 

edged,  with  border  zone  of  bleached,  ashamed 
trunks  and  lofty  branches  white  as  chalk,  of 
dead  and  dying  trees.  For  no  jungle  tree, 
however  hardy,  can  withstand  the  blasting  of 
violent  sun  after  the  veiling  of  emerald  foliage 
is  torn  away.  As  the  diver  plunges  beneath  the 
waves,  so,  after  one  glance  backward  over  the 
silvered  landscape,  I  passed  at  a  single  stride 
into  what  seemed  by  contrast  inky  blackness,  re- 
lieved by  the  trail  ahead,  which  showed  as  does 
a  ray  of  light  through  closed  eyelids.  As  tlie 
chirruping  rails  climbed  among  the  roots  of  the 
tall  cat-tails  out  yonder,  so  we  now  crept  far 
beneath  the  level  of  the  moonlit  foliage.  The 
silvery  landscape  had  been  shifted  one  hundred, 
two  hundred  feet  above  the  earth.  We  had 
become  lords  of  creation  in  name  alone,  thread- 
ing our  way  humbly  among  the  fungi  and  toad- 
stools, able  only  to  look  aloft  and  wonder  what 
it  was  like.  And  for  a  long  time  no  voice  an- 
swered to  tell  us  whether  any  creature  lived  and 
moved  in  the  tree-tops. 

The  tropical  jungle  by  day  is  the  most  won- 
derful place  in  the  world.  At  night  I  am  sure 
it  is  the  most  weirdly  beautiful  of  all  places 
outside  the  world.  For  it  is  primarily  unearthly, 


The  Jungle 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  269 

unreal;  and  at  last  I  came  to  know  why.  In 
the  light  of  the  full  moon  it  was  rejuvenated. 
The  simile  of  theatrical  scenery  was  always 
present  to  the  mind,  the  illusion  lying  especially 
in  the  completeness  of  transformation  from  the 
jungle  by  daylight.  The  theatrical  effect  was 
heightened  by  the  sense  of  being  in  some  vast 
building.  This  was  because  of  the  complete 
absence  of  any  breath  of  air.  Not  a  leaf  moved ; 
even  the  pendulous  air-roots  reaching  down  their 
seventy-foot  plummets  for  the  touch  of  soil  did 
not  sway  a  hair's  breadth.  The  throb  of  the 
pulse  set  the  rhythm  for  one's  steps.  The  silence, 
for  a  time,  was  as  perfect  as  the  breathlessness. 
It  was  a  wonderfully  ventilated  amphitheater; 
the  air  was  as  free  from  any  feeling  of  tropical 
heat,  as  it  lacked  all  crispness  of  the  north.  It 
was  exactly  the  temperature  of  one's  skin.  Heat 
and  cold  were  for  the  moment  as  unthinkable 
as  wind. 

One's  body  seemed  wholly  negligible.  In  soft 
padding  moccasins  and  easy  swinging  gait  close 
behind  my  naked  Indian  hunter,  and  in  such 
khaki  browns  that  my  body  was  almost  invisible 
to  my  own  downward  glance,  I  was  conscious 
only  of  the  play  of  my  senses — of  two  at  first, 


270  JUNGLE  PEACE 

sight  and  smell;  later,  of  hearing.  The  others 
did  not  exist.  We  two  were  unattached,  imper- 
sonal, moving  without  effort  or  exertion.  It  was 
magic,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  had  only  my 
Akawai  for  companion,  for  it  was  magic  that  a 
word  would  have  shattered.  Yet  there  was  this 
wonderfully  satisfying  thing  about  it,  that  most 
magic  lacks:  it  exists  at  present,  today  perhaps, 
at  least  once  a  month,  and  I  know  that  I  shall 
experience  it  again.  When  I  go  to  the  window 
and  look  out  upon  the  city  night,  I  find  all 
extraneous  light  emaciated  and  shattered  by  the 
blare  of  gas  and  electricity,  but  from  one  up- 
reaching  tower  I  can  see  reflected  a  sheen  which 
is  not  generated  in  any  power-house  of  earth. 
Then  I  know  that  within  the  twenty-four  hours 
the  terai  jungles  of  Garhwal,  the  tree-ferns  of 
Pahang,  and  the  mighty  moras  which  now  sur- 
round us,  will  stand  in  silvery  silence  and  in 
the  peace  which  only  the  wilderness  knows. 

I  soon  took  the  lead  and  slackened  the  pace  to 
a  slow  walk.  Every  few  minutes  we  stood  mo- 
tionless, listening  with  mouth  as  well  as  ears. 
For  no  one  who  has  not  listened  in  such  silence 
can  realize  how  important  the  mouth  is.  Like 
the  gill  of  old  which  gave  it  origin,  our  ear  has 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  271 

still  an  entrance  inward  as  well  as  outward,  and 
the  sweep  of  breath  and  throb  of  the  blood  are 
louder  than  we  ever  suspect.  When  at  an  opera 
or  concert  I  see  some  one  sitting  rapt,  listening 
with  open  mouth,  I  do  not  think  of  it  as  ill- 
bred.  I  know  it  for  unconscious  and  sincere 
absorption  based  on  an  excellent  physical 
reason. 

It  was  early  spring  in  the  tropics;  insect  life 
was  still  in  the  gourmand  stage,  or  that  of  pupal 
sleep.  The  final  period  of  pipe  and  fiddle  had 
not  yet  arrived,  so  that  there  was  no  hum  from 
the  underworld.  The  flow  of  sap  and  the  spread 
of  petals  were  no  less  silent  than  the  myriad 
creatures  which,  I  knew,  slumbered  or  hunted 
on  every  side.  It  was  as  if  I  had  slipped  back 
one  dimension  in  space  and  walked  in  a  shadow 
world.  But  these  shadows  were  not  all  color- 
less. Although  the  light  was  strained  almost 
barren  by  the  moon  mountains,  yet  the  glow 
from  the  distant  lava  and  craters  still  kept  some- 
thing of  color,  and  the  green  of  the  leaves,  great 
and  small,  showed  as  a  rich  dark  olive.  The 
afternoon's  rain  had  left  each  one  filmed  with 
clear  water,  and  this  struck  back  the  light  as 
polished  silver.  There  was  no  tempered  illumi- 


272  JUNGLE  PEACE 

nation.  The  trail  ahead  was  either  black,  or  a 
solid  sheet  of  light.  Here  and  there  in  the 
jungle  on  each  side,  where  a  tree  had  fallen, 
or  a  flue  of  clear  space  led  moonwards,  the  effect 
was  of  cold  electric  light  seen  through  trees  in 
city  parks.  When  such  a  shaft  struck  down 
upon  us,  it  surpassed  simile.  I  have  seen  old 
paintings  in  Belgian  cathedrals  of  celestial  light 
which  now  seems  less  imaginary. 

At  last  the  silence  was  broken,  and  like  the 
first  breath  of  the  tradewind  which  clouds  the 
Mazaruni  surface,  the  mirror  of  silence  was 
never  quite  clear  again — or  so  it  seemed.  My 
northern  mind,  stored  with  sounds  of  memory, 
never  instinctively  accepted  a  new  voice  of  ,the 
jungle  for  what  it  was.  Each  had  to  go  through 
a  reference  clearing-house  of  sorts.  It  was  like 
the  psychological  reaction  to  words  or  phrases. 
Any  strange  wail  or  scream  striking  suddenly 
upon  my  ear  instantly  crystallized  some  vision 
of  the  past — some  circumstance  or  adventure 
fraught  with  similar  sound.  Then,  appreciably 
as  a  second  thought,  came  the  keen  concentra- 
tion of  every  sense  to  identify  this  new  sound, 
to  hear  it  again,  to  fix  it  in  mind  with  its  char- 
acter and  its  meaning.  Perhaps  at  some  distant 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  273 

place  and  time,  in  utterly  incongruous  surround- 
ings, it  may  in  turn  flash  into  consciousness — a 
memory-simile  stimulated  by  some  sound  of  the 
future. 

I  stood  in  a  patch  of  moonlight  listening  to 
the  baying  of  a  hound,  or  so  I  thought:  that 
musical  ululation  which  links  man's  companion 
wolfwards.  Then  I  thought  of  the  packs  of 
wild  hunting  dogs,  the  dreaded  "  warracabra 
tigers,"  and  I  turned  to  the  Indian  at  my  elbow, 
full  of  hopeful  expectation.  With  his  quiet 
smile  he  whispered,  "  kunama"  and  I  knew  I 
had  heard  the  giant  tree-frog  of  Guiana — a  frog 
of  size  and  voice  well  in  keeping  with  these 
mighty  jungles.  I  knew  these  were  powerful 
beenas  with  the  Indians,  tokens  of  good  hunt- 
ing, and  every  fortunate  benab  would  have  its 
dried  mummy  frog  hung  up  with  the  tail  of  the 
giant  armadillo  and  other  charms.  Well  might 
these  batrachians  arouse  profound  emotions 
among  the  Indians,  familiar  as  they  are  with 
the  strange  beings  of  the  forest.  I  could 
imagine  the  great  goggle-eyed  fellow  sprawled 
high  near  the  roof  of  the  jungle,  clutching  the 
leaves  with  his  vacuum-cupped  toes.  The  moon- 
light would  make  him  ghostly — a  pastel  frog; 


JUNGLE  PEACE 

but  in  the  day  he  flaunted  splashes  of  azure  and 
green  on  his  scarlet  body. 

At  a  turn  in  the  trail  we  squatted  and  waited 
for  what  the  jungle  might  send  of  sight  or 
sound.  And  in  whispers  Nupee  told  me  of  the 
big  frog  kunama,  and  its  ways.  It  never  came 
to  the  ground,  or  even  descended  part  way  down 
the  trees;  and  by  some  unknown  method  of  dis- 
tillation it  made  little  pools  of  its  own  in  deep 
hollows  and  there  lived.  And  this  water  was 
thick  like  honey  and  white  like  milk,  and  when 
stirred  became  reddish.  Besides  which,  it  was 
very  bitter.  If  a  man  drank  of  it,  forever  after 
he  hopped  each  night  and  clasped  all  the  trees 
which  he  encountered,  endlessly  endeavoring  to 
ascend  them  and  always  failing.  And  yet,  if  he 
could  once  manage  to  reach  a  pool  of  kunama 
water  in  an  uncut  tree  and  drink,  his  manhood 
would  return  and  his  mind  be  healed. 

When  the  Indians  desired  this  beena,  they 
marked  a  tree  whence  a  frog  called  at  night, 
and  in  the  daytime  cut  it  down.  Forming  a 
big  circle,  they  searched  and  found  the  frog,  and 
forthwith  smoked  it  and  rubbed  it  on  arrows 
and  bow  before  they  went  out.  I  listened 
gravely  and  found  it  all  fitted  in  with  the  magic 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  275 

of  the  night.  If  an  Indian  had  appeared  down 
the  trail,  hopping  endlessly  and  gripping  the 
trunks,  gazing  upward  with  staring  eyes,  I 
should  not  have  thought  it  more  strange  than 
the  next  thing  that  really  happened. 

We  had  settled  on  our  toes  in  another  squat- 
ting-place — a  dark  aisle  with  only  scattered 
flecks  of  light.  The  silence  and  breathlessness 
of  the  mooncraters  could  have  been  no  more  com- 
plete than  that  which  enveloped  us.  My  eye 
wandered  from  spot  to  spot,  when  suddenly  I 
began  to  think  of  that  great  owl-like  goatsucker, 
the  "  poor-me-one."  We  had  shot  one  at  Kala- 
coon  a  month  before  and  no  others  had  called 
since,  and  I  had  not  thought  of  the  species 
again.  Quite  without  reason  I  began  to  think 
of  the  bird,  of  its  wonderful  markings,  of  the 
eyes  which  years  ago  in  Trinidad  I  had  made 
to  glow  like  iridescent  globes  in  the  light  of  a 
flash,  and  then — a  poor-me-one  called  behind 
us,  not  fifty  feet  away.  Even  this  did  not  seem 
strange  among  these  surroundings.  It  was  an 
interesting  happening,  one  which  I  have  experi- 
enced many  times  in  my  life.  It  may  have  been 
just  another  coincidence.  I  am  quite  certain  it 
was  not.  In  any  event  it  was  a  Dantesque 


276  JUNGLE  PEACE 

touch,  emphasized  by  the  character  of  the  call — 
the  wail  of  a  lost  soul  being  as  good  a  simile  as 
any  other.  It  started  as  a  high,  trembling  wail, 
the  final  cry  being  lost  in  the  depths  of  whis- 
pered woe: — 

Oo ooh! 

oh! 
oh! 
oh! 
oh! 

oh! 

Nupee  never  moved;  only  his  lips  formed  the 
name  by  which  he  knew  it — halawoe.  What- 
ever else  characterized  the  sounds  of  the  jungle 
at  night,  none  became  monotonous  or  common. 
Five  minutes  later  the  great  bird  called  to  us 
from  far,  far  away,  as  if  from  another  round 
of  purgatory — an  eerie  lure  to  enter  still  deeper 
into  the  jungle  depths.  We  never  heard  it 
again. 

Nature  seems  to  have  apportioned  the  voices 
of  many  of  her  creatures  with  sensitive  regard 
for  their  environment.  Somber  voices  seem  fit- 
tingly to  be  associated  with  subdued  light,  and 
joyous  notes  with  the  blaze  of  sunlit  twigs  and 
open  meadows.  A  bobolink's  bubbling  carol  is 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  277 

unthinkable  in  a  jungle,  and  the  strain  of  a 
wood  pewee  on  a  sunny  hillside  would  be  like 
an  organ  playing  dance  music.  This  is  even 
more  pronounced  in  the  tropics,  where,  quite 
aside  from  any  mental  association  on  my  part, 
the  voices  and  calls  of  the  jungle  reflect  the 
qualities  of  that  twilight  world.  The  poor-me- 
one  proves  too  much.  He  is  the  very  essence  of 
night,  his  wings  edged  with  velvet  silence,  his 
plumage  the  mingled  concentration  of  moss  and 
lichens  and  dead  wood. 

I  was  about  to  rise  and  lead  Nupee  farther 
into  the  gloom  when  the  jungle  showed  another 
mood — a  silent  whimsy,  the  humor  of  which  I 
could  not  share  with  the  little  red  man.  Close 
to  my  face,  so  near  that  it  startled  me  for  a 
moment,  over  the  curved  length  of  a  long  nar- 
row caladium  leaf,  there  came  suddenly  two 
brilliant  lights.  Steadily  they  moved  onward, 
coming  up  into  view  for  all  the  world  like  two 
tiny  headlights  of  a  motor-car.  They  passed, 
and  the  broadside  view  of  this  great  elater  was 
still  absurdly  like  the  profile  of  a  miniature 
tonneau  with  the  top  down.  I  laughingly 
thought  to  myself  how  perfect  the  illusion  would 
be  if  a  red  tail-light  should  be  shown,  when 


278  JUNGLE  PEACE 

to  my  amazement  a  rosy  red  light  flashed  out 
behind,  and  my  bewildered  eyes  all  but  distin- 
guished a  number!  Naught  but  a  tropical  for- 
est could  present  such  contrasts  in  such  rapid 
succession  as  the  poor-me-one  and  this  parody 
of  man's  invention. 

I  captured  the  big  beetle  and  slid  him  into  a 
vial,  where  in  his  disgust  he  clicked  sharply 
against  the  glass.  The  vial  went  into  my  pocket 
and  we  picked  up  our  guns  and  crept  on.  As 
we  traversed  a  dark  patch,  dull  gleams  like  heat 
lightning  flashed  over  the  leaves,  and,  looking 
down,  I  saw  that  my  khaki  was  aglow  from  the 
illuminated  insect  within.  This  betrayed  every 
motion,  so  I  wrapped  the  vial  in  several  sheets 
of  paper  and  rolled  it  up  in  my  handkerchief. 
The  glow  was  duller  but  almost  as  penetrating. 
At  one  time  or  another  I  have  had  to  make  use 
of  all  my  garments,  from  topee  to  moccasins,  in 
order  to  confine  captives  armed  with  stings, 
beaks,  teeth,  or  fangs,  but  now  I  was  at  a  com- 
plete loss.  I  tried  a  gun-barrel  with  a  handker- 
chief stopper,  and  found  I  now  carried  an  excel- 
lent, long-handled  flashlight.  Besides,  I  might 
have  sudden  use  for  the  normal  function  of  the 
gun.  I  had  nothing  sufficiently  opaque  to 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  279 

quench  those  flaring  headlights,  and  I  had  to 
own  myself  beaten  and  release  him.  He  spread 
his  wings  and  flew  swiftly  away,  his  red  light 
glowing  derisively ;  and  even  in  the  flood  of  pure 
moonlight  he  moved  within  an  aura  which  car- 
ried far  through  the  jungle.  I  knew  that  killing 
him  was  of  no  use,  for  a  week  after  death  from 
chloroform  I  have  seen  the  entire  interior  of  a 
large  insect  box  brilliantly  lighted  by  the  glow 
of  these  wonderful  candles,  still  burning  on  the 
dead  shoulders  of  the  same  kind  of  insect. 

Twice,  deeper  in  the  jungle  we  squatted  and 
listened,  and  twice  the  silence  remained  un- 
broken and  the  air  unmoved.  Happening  to 
look  up  through  a  lofty,  narrow  canyon  of  dark 
foliage,  I  was  startled  as  by  some  sudden  sound 
by  seeing  a  pure  white  cloud,  moon-lit,  low 
down,  pass  rapidly  across.  It  was  first  astound- 
ing, then  unreal:  a  bit  of  exceedingly  poor  work 
on  the  part  of  the  property  man,  who  had  mixed 
the  hurricane  scenery  with  that  of  the  dog-days. 
Even  the  elements  seemed  to  have  been  laved 
with  magic.  The  zone  of  high  wind  with  its 
swift  flying  clouds  must  have  been  flowing  like 
a  river  just  above  the  motionless  foliage  of  the 
tree-tops. 


280  JUNGLE  PEACE 

This  piece  of  ultra-unnaturalism  seemed  to 
break  part  of  the  spell  and  the  magic  silence 
was  lifted.  Two  frogs  boomed  again,  close  at 
hand,  and  now  all  the  hound  similitude  was 
gone,  and  in  its  place  another,  still  more  strange, 
when  we  think  of  the  goggle-eyed  author  far  up 
in  the  trees.  The  sound  now  was  identical  with 
the  short  cough  or  growl  of  a  hungry  lion,  and 
though  I  have  heard  the  frogs  many  times  since 
that  night,  this  resemblance  never  changed  or 
weakened.  It  seemed  as  if  the  volume,  the  roar- 
ing outburst,  could  come  only  from  the  throat 
of  some  large,  full-lunged  mammal. 

A  sudden  tearing  rush  from  the  trail-side, 
and  ripping  of  vines  and  shrubs,  was  mingled 
with  deep,  hoarse  snorts,  and  we  knew  that  we 
had  disturbed  one  of  the  big  red  deer — big  only 
in  comparison  with  the  common  tiny  brown 
brockets.  A  few  yards  farther  the  leaves  rus- 
tled high  overhead,  although  no  breath  of  wind 
had  as  yet  touched  the  jungle.  I  began  a  slow, 
careful  search  with  my  flashlight,  and,  mingled 
with  the  splotches  and  specks  of  moonlight  high 
overhead,  I  seemed  to  see  scores  of  little  eyes 
peering  down.  But  at  last  my  faint  electric 
beam  found  its  mark  and  evolved  the  first  bit 


A  Watcher  in  the  Jungle 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  281 

of  real  color  which  the  jungle  had  shown— 
always  excepting  the  ruby  tail-light.  Two  tiny 
red  globes  gleamed  down  at  us,  and  as  they 
gleamed,  moved  without  a  sound,  apparently 
unattached,  slowly  through  the  foliage.  Then 
came  a  voice,  as  wandering,  as  impersonal  as 
the  eyes — a  sharp,  incisive  wheeeeeat!  with  a 
cat-like  timbre;  and  from  the  eyes  and  voice 
I  reconstructed  a  night  monkey — a  kinka- 
jou. 

Then  another  notch  was  slipped  and  the  jun- 
gle for  a  time  showed  something  of  the  exuber- 
ance of  its  life.  A  paca  leaped  from  its  meal  of 
nuts  and  bounced  away  with  quick,  repeated 
pats;  a  beetle  with  wings  tuned  to  the  bass  clef 
droned  by;  some  giant  tree-cricket  tore  the  re- 
maining intervals  of  silence  to  shreds  with 
unmuted  wing-fiddles,  cricks  so  shrill  and  high 
that  they  well-nigh  passed  beyond  the  upper 
register  of  my  ear  out  again  into  silence.  The 
roar  of  another  frog  was  comforting  to  my  ear- 
drums. 

Then  silence  descended  again,  and  hours 
passed  in  our  search  for  sound  or  smell  of  the 
animal  we  wished  chiefest  to  find — the  giant 
armadillo.  These  rare  beings  have  a  distinct 


282  JUNGLE  PEACE 

odor.  Months  of  work  in  the  open  had  sharp- 
ened my  nostrils  so  that  on  such  a  tramp  as 
this  they  were  not  much  inferior  to  those  of 
Nupee.  This  sense  gave  me  as  keen  pleasure  as 
eye  or  ear,  and  furnished  quite  as  much  infor- 
mation. The  odors  of  city  and  civilization 
seemed  very  far  away:  gasolene,  paint,  smoke, 
perfumery,  leather — all  these  could  hardly  be 
recalled.  And  how  absurd  seemed  society's  un- 
written taboo  on  discussion  of  this  admirable, 
but  pitifully  degenerate  sense!  Why  may  you 
look  at  your  friend's  books,  touch  his  collection 
of  netsukes,  listen  to  his  music,  yet  dare  sniff 
at  naught  but  his  blossoms! 

In  the  open  spaces  of  the  earth,  and  more 
than  anywhere  in  this  conservatory  of  unblown 
odors,  we  come  more  and  more  to  appreciate 
and  to  envy  a  dog's  sensitive  muzzle.  Here  we 
sniffed  as  naturally  as  we  turned  ear,  and  were 
able  to  recognize  many  of  our  nasal  impressions, 
and  even  to  follow  a  particularly  strong  scent  to 
its  source.  Few  yards  of  trail  but  had  their  dis- 
tinguishable scent,  whether  violent,  acrid  smell 
or  delectable  fragrance.  Long  after  a  crab- 
jackal  had  passed,  we  noted  the  stinging,  bitter 
taint  in  the  air,  and  now  and  then  the  pungent 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  283 

wake  of  some  big  jungle-bug  struck  us  like  a 
tangible  barrier. 

The  most  tantalizing  odors  were  the  wonder- 
fully delicate  and  penetrating  ones  from  some 
great  burst  of  blossoms,  odors  heavy  with  sweet- 
ness, which  seeped  down  from  vine  or  tree  high 
overhead,  wholly  invisible  from  below  even  in 
broad  daylight.  These  odors  remained  longest 
in  memory,  perhaps  because  they  were  so  com- 
pletely the  product  of  a  single  sense.  There 
were  others  too,  which  were  unforgetable,  be- 
cause, like  the  voice  of  the  frog,  they  stirred  the 
memory  a  fraction  before  they  excited  curiosity. 
Such  I  found  the  powerful  musk  from  the  bed 
of  leaves  which  a  fawn  had  just  left.  For  some 
reason  this  brought  vividly  to  mind  the  fearful 
compound  of  smells  arising  from  the  decks  of 
Chinese  junks. 

Along  the  moonlit  trail  there  came  wavering 
whiffs  of  orchids,  ranging  from  attar  of  roses 
and  carnations  to  the  pungence  of  carrion,  the 
latter  doubtless  distilled  from  as  delicate  and 
beautiful  blossoms  as  the  former.  There  were, 
besides,  the  myriad  and  bewildering  smells  of 
sap,  crushed  leaves,  and  decaying  wood;  acrid, 
sweet,  spicy  and  suffocating,  some  like  musty 


284  JUNGLE  PEACE 

books,  others  recalling  the  paint  on  the  Noah's 
Ark  of  one's  nursery. 

But  the  scent  of  the  giant  armadillo  eluded 
us.  When  we  waded  through  some  new,  strange 
odor  I  looked  back  at  Nupee,  hoping  for  some 
sign  that  it  was  the  one  we  sought.  But  that 
night  the  great  armored  creatures  went  their 
way  and  we  ours,  and  the  two  did  not  cross. 
Nupee  showed  me  a  track  at  the  trail-side  made 
long  ago,  as  wide  and  deep  as  the  spoor  cf  a 
dinosaur,  and  I  fingered  it  reverently  as  I  would 
have  touched  the  imprint  of  a  recently  alighted 
pterodactyl,  taking  care  not  to  spoil  the  outlines 
of  the  huge  claw-marks.  All  my  search  for  him 
had  been  in  vain  thus  far,  though  I  had  been 
so  close  upon  his  trail  as  to  have  seen  fresh 
blood.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to  give  up, 
but  it  seemed  as  if  success  must  wait  for  another 
year. 

We  watched  and  called  the  ghostly  kinkajous 
and  held  them  fascinated  with  our  stream  of 
light;  we  roused  unnamable  creatures  which 
squawked  companionably  at  us  and  rustled  the 
tree-top  leaves;  we  listened  to  the  whispered 
rush  of  passing  vampires  skimming  our  faces 
and  were  soothed  by  the  hypnotic  droning  hum 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  285 

which  beetles  left  in  their  swift  wake.  Finally 
we  turned  and  circled  through  side  trails  so 
narrow  and  so  dark  that  we  walked  with  out- 
stretched arms,  feeling  for  the  trunks  and  lianas, 
choosing  a  sloth's  gait  and  the  hope  of  new  ad- 
ventures rather  than  the  glare  of  my  flash  on 
our  path. 

When  we  entered  the  Convict  Trail,  we  headed 
toward  home.  Within  sight  of  the  first  turn 
a  great  black  limb  of  a  tree  had  recently  fallen 
across  the  trail  in  a  patch  of  moonlight.  Before 
we  reached  it,  the  branch  had  done  something 
it  should  not  have  done — it  had  straightened 
slightly.  We  strained  our  eyes  to  the  utmost 
but  could  not,  in  this  eerie  light,  tell  head  from 
tail  end  of  this  great  serpent.  It  moved  very 
slowly,  and  with  a  motion  which  perfectly  con- 
founded our  perception.  Its  progress  seemed  no 
faster  than  the  hour  hand  of  a  watch,  but  we 
knew  that  it  moved,  yet  so  close  to  the  white 
sand  that  the  whole  trail  seemed  to  move  with  it. 
The  eye  refused  to  admit  any  motion  except 
in  sudden  shifts,  like  widely  separated  films  of  a 
motion-picture.  For  minute  after  minute  it 
seemed  quiescent ;  then  we  would  blink  and  real- 
ize that  it  was  two  feet  higher  up  the  bank.  One 


286  JUNGLE  PEACE 

thing  we  could  see — a  great  thickening  near  the 
center  of  the  snake:  it  had  fed  recently  and  to 
repletion,  and  slowly  it  was  making  its  way  to 
some  hidden  lair,  perhaps  to  lie  motionless  until 
another  moon  should  silver  the  jungle.  Was 
there  any  stranger  life  in  the  world? 

Whether  it  was  a  giant  bushmaster  or  a  con- 
strictor, we  could  not  tell  in  the  diffused  light. 
I  allowed  it  to  go  unharmed,  for  the  spell  of 
silence  and  the  jungle  night  was  too  strongly 
woven  to  be  shattered  again  by  the  crash  of  gun 
or  rifle.  Nupee  had  been  quite  willing  to  remain 
behind,  and  now,  as  so  often  with  my  savage 
friends,  he  looked  at  me  wonderingly.  He  did 
not  understand  and  I  could  not  explain.  We 
were  at  one  in  the  enjoyment  of  direct  phenom- 
ena; we  could  have  passed  months  of  intimate 
companionship  in  the  wilds  as  I  had  done  with 
his  predecessors;  but  at  the  touch  of  abstract 
things,  of  letting  a  deadly  creature  live  for  any 
reason  except  for  lack  of  a  gun — then  they 
looked  at  me  always  with  that  puzzled  look, 
that  straining  to  grasp  the  something  which  they 
knew  must  be  there.  And  at  once  always  fol- 
lowed instant  acceptance,  unquestioning,  without 
protest.  The  transition  was  smooth,  direct,  com- 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  287 

plete;  the  sahib  had  had  opportunity  to  shoot;  he 
had  not  done  so;  what  did  the  sahib  wish  to  do 
now — to  squat  longer  or  to  go  on?  Bancroft  Libran 

We  waited  for  many  minutes  at  the  edge  of 
the  small  glade,  and  the  event  which  seemed  most 
significant  to  me  was  in  actual  spectacle  one  of 
the  last  of  the  night's  happenings.  I  sat  with 
chin  on  knees,  coolie-fashion — a  position  which, 
when  once  mastered,  and  with  muscles  trained 
to  withstand  the  unusual  flexion  for  hour  after 
hour,  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  assets  of  the 
wilderness  lover  and  the  watcher  of  wild  things. 
It  enables  one  to  spend  long  periods  of  time  in 
the  lowest  of  umbrella  tents,  or  to  rest  on  wet 
ground  or  sharp  stones  where  actual  sitting  down 
would  be  impossible.  Thus  is  one  insulated  from 
betes  rouges  and  enthusiastic  ants  whose  sole 
motto  is  eternal  preparedness.  Thus,  too,  one 
slips  as  it  were,  under  the  visual  guard  of 
human-shy  creatures,  whose  eyes  are  on  the 
lookout  for  their  enemy  at  human  height.  From 
such  a  position,  a  single  upward  leap  prepares 
one  instantly  for  advance  or  retreat,  either  of 
which  manoeuvers  is  well  within  instant  neces- 
sity at  times.  Then  there  were  always  the  two 
positions  to  which  one  could  change  if  occasion 


288  JUNGLE  PEACE 

required — flat-footed,  with  arm-pits  on  knees,  or 
on  the  balls  of  the  feet  with  elbows  on  knees. 
Thus  is  every  muscle  shifted  and  relaxed. 

Squatting  is  one  of  the  many  things  which  a 
white  man  may  learn  from  watching  his  shika- 
rees and  guides,  and  which,  in  the  wilderness, 
he  may  adopt  without  losing  caste.  We  are  a 
chair-ridden  people,  and  dare  hardly  even  cross 
our  knees  in  public.  Yet  how  many  of  us  enjoy 
sitting  Buddha-fashion,  or  as  near  to  it  as  we 
can  attain,  when  the  ban  of  society  is  lifted! 
A  chairless  people,  however,  does  not  neces- 
sarily mean  a  more  simple,  primitive  type.  The 
Japanese  method  of  sitting  is  infinitely  more  dif- 
ficult and  complex  than  ours.  The  characters 
of  our  weak-thighed,  neolithic  forbears  are  as 
yet  too  pronounced  in  our  own  bodies  for  us  to 
keep  an  upright  position  for  long.  Witness  the 
admirable  admittance  of  this  anthropological 
fact  by  the  architects  of  our  subway  cars,  who 
know  that  only  a  tithe  of  their  patrons  will  be 
fortunate  enough  to  find  room  on  the  cane- 
barked  seats  which  have  come  to  take  the  place 
of  the  stumps  and  fallen  logs  of  a  hundred 
thousand  years  ago.  So  they  have  thought- 
fully strung  upper  reaches  of  the  cars  with  imi- 


JUNGLE  NIGHT 

tation  branches  and  swaying  lianas,  to  which  the 
last-comers  cling  jealously,  and  swing  with  more 
or  less  of  the  grace  of  their  distant  forbears. 
Their  fur,  to  be  sure,  is  rubbed  thinner;  nuts 
and  fruits  have  given  place  to  newspapers  and 
novels,  and  the  roar  and  odors  are  not  those  of 
the  wind  among  the  leaves  and  blossoms.  But 
the  simile  is  amusing  enough  to  end  abruptly, 
and  permit  individual  imagination  to  complete  it. 

When  I  see  an  overtired  waiter  or  clerk 
swaying  from  foot  to  foot  like  a  rocking  ele- 
phant, I  sometimes  place  the  blame  further 
back  than  immediate  impatience  for  the  strik- 
ing of  the  closing  hour.  It  were  more  true  to 
blame  the  gentlemen  whose  habits  were  formed 
before  caste,  whose  activities  preceded  speech. 

We  may  be  certain  that  chairs  will  never  go 
out  of  fashion.  We  are  at  the  end  of  bodily 
evolution  in  that  direction.  But  to  see  a  white- 
draped,  lanky  Hindu,  or  a  red-cloaked  lama  of 
the  hills,  quietly  fold  up,  no  matter  where  he  may 
be,  is  to  witness  the  perfection  of  chairless  rest. 
One  can  read  or  write  or  doze  comfortably, 
swaying  slightly  with  a  bird's  unconscious  bal- 
ance, or,  as  in  my  case  at  present,  wholly  dis- 
arm suspicion  on  the  part  of  the  wild  creatures 


290  JUNGLE  PEACE 

by  sinking  from  the  height  of  a  man  to  that  of 
a  jungle  deer.  And  still  I  had  lost  nothing  of 
the  insulation  which  my  moccasins  provided  from 
all  the  inconveniences  of  the  forest  floor.  Look- 
ing at  Nupee  after  this  rush  of  chaotic  thoughts 
which  came  between  jungle  and  happenings,  I 
chuckled  as  I  hugged  my  knees,  for  I  knew 
that  Nupee  had  noticed  and  silently  considered 
my  little  accomplishment,  and  that  he  approved, 
and  I  knew  that  I  had  acquired  merit  in  his 
sight.  Thus  may  we  revel  in  the  approval  of 
our  super-servants,  but  they  must  never  know  it. 
From  this  eulogy  of  squatting,  my  mind  re- 
turned to  the  white  light  of  the  glade.  I  watched 
the  motionless  leaves  about  me,  many  of  them 
drooping  and  rich  maroon  by  daylight,  for  they 
were  just  unbudded.  Reaching  far  into  the 
dark  mystery  of  the  upper  jungle  stretched 
the  air-roots,  held  so  straight  by  gravity,  so  un- 
heeding of  the  whirling  of  the  planet  through 
space.  Only  one  mighty  liana — a  monkey-lad- 
der— had  revolted  against  this  dominance  of  the 
earth's  pull  and  writhed  and  looped  upon  itself 
in  fantastic  whorls,  while  along  its  length  rip- 
pled ever  the  undulations  which  mark  this  uneasy 
growth,  this  crystallized  Saint  Vitus  plant. 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  291 

A  momentary  shiver  of  leaves  drew  our  eyes 
to  the  left,  and  we  began  to  destroy  the  optical 
images  evolved  by  the  moon-shadows  and  to  seek 
for  the  small  reality  which  we  knew  lived  and 
breathed  somewhere  on  that  branch.  Then  a 
sharp  crack  like  a  rifle  lost  whatever  it  was  to 
us  forever,  and  we  half  leaped  to  our  feet  as 
something  swept  downward  through  the  air  and 
crashed  length  after  length  among  the  plants 
and  fallen  logs.  The  branches  overhead  rocked 
to  and  fro,  and  for  many  minutes,  like  the  after- 
math of  a  volcanic  eruption,  came  a  shower,  first 
of  twigs  and  swirling  leaves,  then  of  finer  par- 
ticles, and  lastly  of  motes  which  gleamed  like 
silver  dust  as  they  sifted  down  to  the  trail. 
When  the  air  cleared  I  saw  that  the  monkey- 
ladder  had  vanished  and  I  knew  that  its  yards 
upon  yards  of  length  lay  coiled  and  crushed 
among  the  ferns  and  sprouting  palms  of  the 
jungle  floor.  It  seemed  most  fitting  that  the 
vegetable  kingdom,  whose  silence  and  majesty 
gave  to  the  jungle  night  its  magic  qualities, 
should  have  contributed  this  memorable  climax. 

Long  before  the  first  Spaniard  sailed  up  the 
neighboring  river,  the  monkey  ladder  had  thrown 
its  spirals  aloft,  and  through  all  the  centuries, 


292  JUNGLE  PEACE 

all  the  years,  it  had  seen  no  change  wrought 
beneath  it.  The  animal  trail  was  trod  now  and 
then  by  Indian  hunters,  and  lately  we  had  passed 
several  times.  The  sound  of  our  guns  was  less 
than  the  crashing  fall  of  an  occasional  forest 
tree.  Now,  with  no  leaf  moved  by  the  air,  with 
only  the  two  of  us  squatting  in  the  moonlight 
for  audience,  the  last  cell  had  given  way.  The 
sap  could  no  longer  fight  the  decay  which  had 
entered  its  heart;  and  at  the  appointed  moment, 
the  moment  set  by  the  culmination  of  a  greater 
nexus  of  forces  than  our  human  mind  could  ever 
hope  to  grasp,  the  last  fiber  parted  and  the  mas- 
sive growth  fell. 

In  the  last  few  minutes,  as  it  hung  suspended, 
gracefully  spiraled  in  the  moonlight,  it  had 
seemed  as  perfect  as  the  new-sprouted  moras  at 
my  feet.  As  I  slowly  walked  out  of  the  jungle 
I  saw  in  this  the  explanation  of  the  simile  of 
artificial  scenery,  of  all  the  strange  magic  which 
had  come  to  me  as  I  entered.  The  alchemy  of 
moonlight  turned  all  the  jungle  to  perfect 
growth,  growth  at  rest.  In  the  silvery  light 
was  no  trace  of  gnawing  worm,  of  ravening 
ant,  or  corroding  fungus.  The  jungle  was  re- 
juvenated and  made  a  place  more  wonderful 


JUNGLE  NIGHT  293 

than  any  fairyland  of  which  I  have  read  or 
which  I  have  conceived.  The  jungle  by  day,  as 
I  have  said — that,  too,  is  wonderful.  We  may 
have  two  friends,  quite  unlike  in  character, 
whom  we  love  each  for  his  own  personality,  and 
yet  it  would  be  a  hideous  and  unthinkable  thing 
to  see  one  transformed  into  the  other. 

So,  with  the  mist  settling  down  and  tarnish- 
ing the  great  plaque  of  silver,  I  left  the  jungle, 
glad  that  I  could  be  far  away  before  the  first 
hint  of  dawn  came  to  mar  the  magic.  Thus  in 
memory  I  can  always  keep  the  dawn  away  until 
I  return. 

And  some  time  in  the  future,  when  the  lure 
of  the  full  moon  comes,  and  I  answer,  I  shall 
be  certain  of  finding  the  same  silence,  the  same 
wonderful  light,  and  the  waiting  trees  and  the 
magic.  But  Nupee  may  not  be  there.  He  will 
perhaps  have  slipped  into  memory,  with  Drojak 
and  Aladdin.  And  if  I  find  no  one  as  silently 
friendly  as  Nupee,  I  shall  have  to  watch  alone 
through  my  jungle  night. 


INDEX 


Abary,  99 

agouti,   189 

allamandas,  85,  182 

Amazon,  240 

anaquaa,  115 

anchor,  observation  from,  22, 
23 

anis,  47,  100,  118 

antbirds,  249 

ants,  183,  256,  258;  immunity 
from  killing,  231;  silvery 
gray,  223;  "white,"  233 

army  ants,  behavior  in  rain, 
228,  229;  castes,  217;  eyes, 
219;  leap,  212,  213,  223; 
methods  of  transportation, 
215,  229;  moving  of  nest, 
235,  236;  tube,  227;  trail 
makers,  221,  222;  virility, 
234;  weight  lifted,  216 

Barbados,   59-65 

Bartica,  141 

Basseterre,  45 

bat,  vampire,  104,  152 

batrachian,   212 

beach,  62,  63,  70,  74,  75 

Beckett,  Mr.,  124 

beena,    274 

beetles,  211,  227,  234,  256,  277; 

mimicry,  257;    tiger,  63 
bell  bird,   159 
Berbice,    102,   103,    124 
bete  rouge,  243,  255 
blackbirds,  98,  99 
blackfish,   12 
bougainvillea,  85 
British  Guiana,  mission  to,  67; 

coast  lands,  92-102 
bund ti ri  pimpler,  125 
bunyahs,  yellow-backed,  100 


bushmaster,    noosing,    188-195; 

protective     coloration,     191, 

192;   fangs,  194;   size,  195 
butterflies,  on  St.  Thomas,  38; 

on  St.  Kitts,  48;   migration 

of  sulphur,  158 

caciques,    100 

cadouries,   146 

callistes,   201,   249 

canella  do  matto,  241 

cashew,    French,    197-200 

caterpillars,  aquatic,   128 

catfish,  armored,  112 

cecropia,   182 

centipedes,  152 

cetaceans,   11 

chachalacas,   157 

churacas,   248 

coal-carriers,  St.  Lucia,  55 

convolvulus,    182 

coolie,   trial,   80-84;    marriage, 

163-176 

cotton-birds,    88 
crabs,  16;  land,  62 
cricket,   tree,    281 
crows,  carrion,   88 
cuckoos,  212;  black,  88 
Cuyuni,    144 

dacnis,  201 

daddy-long-legs,   215,  227 
dance,  Hindu,   170 
de"bris,   jungle,   253 
deer,  280 
dikes,  97 

dogs,  wild  hunting,  273 
dolphins,  44,  45 
doves,   ground,   48 
ducks,  Muscovy,  88 


295 


296 


INDEX 


eclipse,  in  Barbados,  61 
egrets,   88 
elater,   277 
Essequibo,   144,   148 

falcons,    laughing,    88 

fireflies,  cluster,  210 

fish,  angel,  50,  56;  four-eyed, 
128;  frog,  18;  photograph- 
ing of  flying,  23;  pipe,  18 

flower,  passion,   182 

flycatchers,  249 ;  fork-tailed, 
122,  159;  golden-crowned 
crested,  150;  streaked,  196 

frangipani,   85 

frog,  211,  212,  240,  273;  call, 
240 

gannets,  40 
grass,  bamboo,  183 
grasshopper,   128,  212 
grass-quits,  157 
grass,  razor,  179,  184 
guide,    for   cutting   trail,    187, 
188 

hanaquas,   119 

hawks,  99 

heliconias,  202;  color,  204; 
Reds,  205;  sleeping  glade, 
205,  206;  sleeping  position, 
205;  Yellows,  205 

herons,  Guiana  green,  127;  tri- 
colored,  88 

hoatzins,  118,  119;  call,  130; 
food  of  young,  126;  home 
life,  123-139;  nest,  126,  129; 
nestlings,  131;  odor,  129; 
photographing  young,  102, 
103 

honey  creepers,  47,  252;  tur- 
quoise, 201 

hummingbirds,  38,  113,  197, 
198,  199,  200 

ibis,  scarlet,   122 

jackal,  crab,  282 
jaguar,    186 


jungle,  animals  obtained  from, 
282;  trail  through,  89;  yard 
of,  255 

Kaburi  trail,  148 
Kalacoon,   142,   143 
kingbirds,  47 
kinkajous,  263,  281 
kiskadees,  86,  104,  127,  157 
kunama,  273;  habits,  274 

laboratory,  wilderness,  141-153 

lianas,  246 

library,  New  Amsterdam,   105, 

110 

lichens,   196 
lizards,      in      Barbados,      60; 

method    of    capture,    41-43 ; 

surrender  of,  203;  trail,  202 
lucannani,  157 

maam,   189 

Mafolie,  38 

Mahaica,    99 

manakins,  249,  252;  opal- 
crowned,  252 

Martinique,  27-32,  49-54;  mar- 
ket, 49-51 

martins,  69,  79,  158 

Mazaruni,  144,  148 

millipede,   38,  214 

mimicry,   257 

mites,  259 

Monkey  Hill,  47 

monkeys,  48;  howling,  155- 
156 

Mont  Peloe,  27-32 

moths,  256 

mouse,   211 

muckamucka,  125 

New  Amsterdam,  110,  124 
night-hawk,    call,    267;    gather- 
ing, 267 
iioctiluca,    65 
nuts,  75 

opossum,  73,  74 

,       black-throated,       88; 
yellow,  nest  of,  100 


INDEX 


297 


paca,  281 

palms,  cocoanut,  100 
Para,  241 
parrakeets,  250 
peas,  butterfly,   182 
perai,  90 

phosphorescence,  20,  65 
phosphorescent   animals,   meth- 
od of  capturing,  20,  21 
pigeons,  48 

pits,  201;  number  five,  211 
Pomeroon,  89,  90 

rain,  tropical,   120,   121 
rainbow,  lunar,  58 
roaches,  wood,   277 
Roosevelt,   Colonel,    146-150 
Roosevelt,  Mrs.,  147,  148 

sandpiper,  47 

sargasso  weed,  animals  asso- 
ciated with,  18;  fate  of,  19; 
method  of  grappling,  13-16; 
origin,  16 

scorpions,  152;  pseudo,  259 

sea-birds,  11 

sea,  color  of,  24;  swimming  in, 
45,  46 

sea-horses,  18 

second-growth,    180 

seeds,  75 

sharks,  harmlessness  of,  46 

shrimps,    18 

skimmers,  97 

sloth,  name  of,  264 

snails,   259 

snake,  285;  green,  72;  water 
constrictor,  72 

spiders,  259 

spine-tail,   119 


Station,  Zoological,  141,  153; 
Tropical  Research,  67 

St.  Eustatius,  44 

St.  Kitts,  44-49 

St.  Lucia,  54-59;  coal-carriers, 
55 

St.  Pierre,  30 

St.  Thomas,  35-44 

Suddie,  70 

swifts,  Palm,  47,  159;  col- 
lared, 159 

tamarind  tree,  38 

tanagers,  201,  249,  252 

tapir,  90 

tarantula,    152 

termites,  258;  flight,  158; 
immunity  from  attack,  233 

tinamou,  189;  eggs,  189 

toads,   161,  213 

tody-flycatchers,    127 

toucans,  250,  251 

trail,  Convict,  177-210;  Pome- 
roon, 84-91 

trees,  silk  cotton,  100;  senti- 
nel, 196;  wild  cinnamon,  241 

trogons,  188 

Trois   Pitons,   58 

tropic-bird,   37 

trumpet  tree,  182 

warracabra  tiger,  273 
wasp,   63,   83 
wharf,  Dutch,  71 
woodhewers,  249,  251 
woodpeckers,  249,  251,  252 
worm,    inch,    229 
wrens,  157,  250 

Zoological  Society,  New  York, 
67 


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